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Wiap^PS Copyright UZQ(a£> 
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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



MAYNARD'S ENGLISH CLASSIC SERIES -No. 223-224. 

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ESSAYS FROM 
THE SKETCH-BOOK 

BY 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 



WITH INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES, 

AND 

With grammatical notes upon two selections specially prepared to meet 
the requirements of Regents of New York 

BY 

FLORENCE J. PARKER 

Teacher of English in the High School at Geneva, N. Y. 




NEW YORK 

MAY1NARD, MERRILL, & CO. 

29, 31, & 33 East 19th Street. 



! Library of Congress 
Two Copies Received 
JAN 141901 

Copynght entry 

SECOND COPY 



CONTENTS. ' , \S 






PAGE 

Bibliography, iii 

Life of Irving, iv 

Critical Estimates, viii 

The Voyage, 11 

Roscoe, 16 

The Wife, 22 

Rip Van Winkle, 29 

The Art of Book-making, 45 

The Mutability of Literature, 51 

Stratford-on-Avon, 60 

Christmas, 77 

The Stage-coach 82 

Christmas Eve, 87 

Christmas Day, 97 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 110 

Literary Notes, 139 

Grammatical Notes — " The Mutability of Literature" and 

"The Stage-coach," ........ 149 



Copyright, 1900, by 
MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO. 



IRVING'S WORKS. 



PUBLISHED 
IN 



1807 Salmagundi. 

1809 Knickerbocker's History of New York. 

1818 The Sketch-Book. 

1822 Bracebridge Hall. 

1824 Tales of a Traveler. 

1828 Life and Voyages of Columbus. 

1829 Conquest of Granada. 

1831 Companions of Columbus. 

1832 The Alhambra. 

1835 Legends of the Conquest of Spain. 
" Jl jfaw of the Prairies. 

" Recollections of Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey. 

1836 Astoria. 

1837 Adventures of Captain Bonneville. 

1849 Oliver Goldsmith. 

1850 Mahomet and His Successors. 
1855 TO/^'s ifowrt. 

11 Z^y<? of Washington, Volume I. 

1859 Life of Washington, Fifth and last Volume. 



BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. 

Pierre M. Irving. Life of Washington Lrving. 4 vols. The 

standard biography. 
Charles Dudley Warner. Life of Lrving. American Men of Letters 

Series. 
David J. Hill. Life of Lrving. American Authors' Series. 

Hazlitt. Spirit of the Age. 

Jeffrey. Bracebridge Hall. 

William C. Bryant. Address before the New York Historical 

Society, 1860. 
H. W. Longfellow. Address before the Massachusetts Historical 

Society, 1860. 
Curtis. Literary and Social Essays. 

Howells. My Literary Passions. 

Lowell. Fable for Critics. 

Studies of Lrving. Containing Essays and Addresses by Warner, 

Bryant, and George P. Putnam. 
Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vol. XIII. An article by Richard Garnett. 
William Makepeace Thackeray. Nil nisi Bonum, in Roundabout 
Papers, 

iii 



LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Washington Irving was born in New York City April 3, 
1783, the youngest of eleven children of William and Sarah 
Irving. His father, a Scotch seaman, settled in New York 
twenty years before and was established in trade. He was 
a man of great probity and honor, but a strict disciplinarian. 
From his mother Irving inherited that geniality which dis- 
tinguished him in life as well as in his writings. 

Irving's father, though not a wealthy man, gave two of 
his sons a college education, but the youngest did not have 
this advantage, perhaps because of ill health. His educa- 
tion began when he was four years old and continued in a 
desultory fashion until 1799. For some years after the 
latter date he pursued the study of law in an irregular way. 
His health, however, was not of the best, and in 1801: he was 
sent abroad in the hope of improving it. He was successful 
in his search for strength, and also in the attainment of 
those refinements which the Old World could offer to a sus- 
ceptible mind. The grandeur of Rome, the gay beauty of 
Paris, and the busy throngs of London all had their influence 
on him. He saw Nelson's fleet going to Trafalgar, and later 
was awed at the scene of the great admiral lying in state. 
The actress, Mrs. Siddons, charmed him, — the theater was a 
forbidden pleasure of his youth, — and by many another 
experience was his mind stocked with the impressions which 
colored his later work. 

In 1806 Irving returned to New York, and with his 
brother William, and James K. Paulding, founded Salma- 
gundi, a periodical of the same type as the Spectator. At 

iv 



LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. V 

this time, too, occurred an event which had great influence 
on his life and gave his writings a deeper and richer note. 
This was the death of Miss Hoffman, daughter of his legal 
instructor, to whom he was attached with an affection that 
lasted till his death. " When I became once more calm and 
collected," writes Irving, " I applied myself, by way of occu- 
pation, to the finishing of my work." 

This work was the " History of New York," by Dietrich 
Knickerbocker. The book is a burlesque history of New 
York under the dominion of the Dutch, filled with boister- 
ous humor, and giving a lifelike picture of the town where 
" burgomasters were chosen by weight." When it was pub- 
lished, in 1809, it met with an immediate success and 
established the author's reputation so well that when, in 
1815, he sailed for Europe the second time, he was assured 
of admission to the literary circles of the Old World. 

In the meantime Irving had become a partner in a com- 
mercial house established by his brother in England and New 
York. At the time of his arrival in Europe this business 
was seriously threatened. He worked with unusual energy 
to resuscitate the lost prosperity, but the firm failed in 1818 
and Irving was thrown on his • resources. He refused the 
offer of a position in the navy department with a salary of 
$2500, feeling that he could do better with his pen. His 
feeling was justified, for in 1819 the first papers of his 
" Sketch-Book " began to appear in New York and Philadel- 
phia, and in the following year John Murray published the 
work in London. It was received with enthusiasm, and 
Irving was at once recognized as one of the leading writers 
of the day. All approved his kindliness, his gentle humor, — 
more refined than in his earlier work, — and the charming 
fancy which, though it be not the fire of imagination pos- 
sessed by the supreme writers, nevertheless imparts a lasting 



vi LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

attraction to his work. In 1822 appeared " Bracebridge 
Hall " ; in 1824, " Tales of a Traveler." 

Soon after the publication of the latter work, having been 
commissioned to make some translations from the Spanish, 
Irving proceeded to Madrid. Here he wrote " The Life of 
Columbus/' which brought him forward as a serious his- 
torian. To this stay we also owe those delightful books, 
" The Conquest of Granada " and " Tales of the Alhambra," 
the latter published at the end of a stay of three years in 
London as Secretary of Legation. 

In 1832, the recipient of many honors, Irving set sail for 
the home from which he had been absent seventeen years. 
He was received by the nation with enthusiasm and was much 
sought after by all, never losing, however, his characteristic 
modesty. During the next ten years, residing at Sunnyside, 
his home on the Hudson, and traveling over his native 
country, he produced his " Tour on the Prairies " (1835), 
"Astoria" (1836), and "Adventures of Captain Bonne- 
ville " (1837). 

In 1842 he was appointed Minister to Spain, where he 
remained four years, returning in 1816. His remaining 
works were biographies, with the exception of " Wolf ert's 
Eoost " (1854). In 1849 appeared the « Life of Mahomet " 
and the " Life of Goldsmith," — the latter a subject for which 
Irving was especially fitted by the sympathy of his spirit 
with that of the poet, — and finally, in 1859, appeared the 
fifth and last volume — the first came out in 1852 — of his 
" Life of Washington." This presents a clear, accurate, 
and often vivid picture of the great general and his times, 
but it lacks some of the vigor and charm of Irving's earlier 
works. 

His last years were passed at Sunnyside, in the midst of 
the beautiful scenes which he has immortalized. He died 



LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. vn 

November 28, 1859, the same year with Prescott the his- 
torian, and Macaulay. A friend who saw much of our 
author in his latter days thus describes him: "He had dark 
gray eyes, a handsome straight nose, which might perhaps 
be called large; a broad, high, full forehead, and a small 
mouth. I should call him of medium height, about five feet 
and nine inches, and inclined to be a trifle stout. His smile 
was exceedingly genial, lightening up his whole face, and 
rendering it very attractive; while, if he were about to say 
anything humorous, it would beam forth from his eyes even 
before his words were spoken." 

In one of his charming Easy Chair essays, George 
William Curtis says : " Irving was as quaint a figure as the 
Dietrich Knickerbocker in the preliminary advertisement of 
the ( History of New York/ Thirty years ago he might 
have been seen on an autumnal afternoon, tripping with an 
elastic step along Broadway, with low quartered shoes neatly 
tied, and a Talma cloak — a short garment like the cape of a 
coat. There was a chirping, cheery, old-school air in his 
appearance which was undeniably Dutch, and most harmoni- 
ous with the association of his writing. He seemed, indeed, 
to have stepped out of his own books; and the cordial grace 
and humor of his address, if he stopped for a passing chat, 
were delightfully characteristic. He was then our most 
famous man of letters, but he was simply free from all self- 
consciousness and assumption and dogmatism." 



CRITICAL ESTIMATES. 

" Washington Irving! Why, gentlemen, I don't go up- 
stairs to bed two nights out of the seven without taking 
Washington Irving under my arm." — Charles Dickens. 

" I know of no books which are of tener lent than those 
that bear the pseudon} T m of ' Geoffrey Crayon/ Few, very 
few, can show a long succession so pure, so graceful, and so 
varied, as Mr. Irving." — Mary Russell Mitford. 

" Rich and original humor, great refinement of feeling and 
delicacy of sentiment. Style accurately finished, easy, and 
transparent. Accurate observer: his descriptions are cor- 
rect, animated, and beautiful." — George S. Hillard. 

" If he wishes to study a style which possesses the charac- 
teristic beauties of Addison's, its ease, simplicity, and 
elegance, with greater accuracy, point, and spirit, let him 
give his days and nights to the volumes of Irving." — Edward 
Everett's "Advice to a Student." 

" He seems to have been born with a rare sense of 
literary proportion and form; into this, as into a mold, were 
run his apparently lazy and really acute observations of life. 
That he thoroughly mastered such literature as he fancied 
there is abundant evidence; that his style was influenced by 
the purest English models is also apparent. But there re- 
mains a large margin for wonder how, with his want of 
training, he could have elaborated a style which is distinctly 
his own, and is as copious, felicitous in the choice of words, 



CRITICAL ESTIMATES. ix 

flowing, spontaneous, flexible, engaging, clear, and as little 
wearisome when read continuously in quantity as any in the 
English tongue." — Charles Dudley Warner. 

" He was born almost with the republic; the pater patrim 
had laid his hand on the child's head. He bore Washing- 
ton's name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest 
sympathy, the most artless, smiling good will . . . Eeceived 
in England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship 
(Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne witness 
to their liking for him), he was a messenger of good will 
and peace between his country and ours. ' See, friends! ' 
he seems to say, ' these English are not so wicked, rapacious, 
callous, proud, as you have been taught to believe them. I 
went amongst them a humble man; won my way by my 
pen; and, when known, found every hand held out to me 
with kindliness and welcome. . . . 

"... In America the love and regard for Irving were a 
national sentiment ... It seemed to me, during a year's 
travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at 
Irving. . . . The country takes pride in the fame of its men 
of letters. The gate of his own charming little domain on the 
beautiful Hudson River was forever swinging before visitors 
who came to him. He shut out no one. . . . 

" And how came it that this house was so small, when Mr. 
Irving's books were sold by hundreds of thousands, — nay, 
millions, — when his profits were known to be large, and the 
habits of life of the good old bachelor were notoriously 
modest and simple? . . . 

" Irving had such a small house and such narrow rooms, 
because there was a great number of people to occupy them. 
He could only afford to keep the old horse (which, lazy and 
aged as it was, managed once or twice to run away with that 



X CRITICAL ESTIMATES. 

careless old horseman) . . . Irving could only live very 
modestly, because the wifeless, childless man had a number 
of children to whom he was as a father. He had as many 
as nine nieces, I am told — I saw two of these ladies at his 
house — with all of whom the dear old man had shared the 
produce of his labor and genius. 

" ' Be a good man, my dear/ One can't but think of these 
last words of the veteran Chief of Letters, who had tasted 
and tested the value of worldly success, admiration, prosper- 
ity. Was Irving not good, and, of his works, was not his 
life the best part? In his family, gentle, generous, good- 
humored, affectionate, self-denying: in society, a delightful 
example of complete gentlemanhood; quite unspoiled by 
prosperity; never obsequious to the great (or, worse still, to 
the base and mean, as some public men are forced to be in 
his and other countries); eager to acknowledge every con- 
temporary's merit; always kind and affable to the young 
members of his calling; in his professional bargains and mer- 
cantile dealings delicately honest and grateful; one of the 
most charming masters of our lighter language; the constant 
friend to us and our nation; to men of letters doubly dear, 
not for his wit and genius merely, but as an exemplar of 
goodness, probity, and pure life." — William Makepeace 
Thackeray. 

"The ' Sketch-Book' is a timid, beautiful work; with, some 
childish pathos in it; some rich, pure, bold poetry; some 
courageous writing, some wit, and a world of humor; so 
happy, so natural, so altogether unlike that of any other 
man, dead or alive, that we would rather have been the 
writer of it, fifty times over, than of everything else he has 
ever written." — Blackwood, 1825. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere 
spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play 
their parts; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a 
common theater or scene. — Burton. 

THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 
What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

— Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of 
worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind 
peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The 
vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a 
blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one coun- 
try blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From 
the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is 
vacancy, until you step on the opposite shore, and are 
launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another 
world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 
tion. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each re- 
11 



12 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

move of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken; we can 
trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last of them 
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us 
at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the 
secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubt- 
ful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but 
real, between us and our homes — a gulf, subject to tempest, 
and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and 
return precarious. 

Such at least was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori- 
zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and 
its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened 
another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, 
which contained all that was most dear to me in life; what 
vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take place 
in me, before I should visit it again! Who can tell, when he 
sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncer- 
tain currents of existence; or when he may return; or whether 
it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medi- 
tation; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the 
air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. 
I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing or climb to the 
maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the 
tranquil bosom of a summer sea; — to gaze upon the piles of 
golden clouds just peering above the horizon; fancy them 
some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my 
own; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their 
silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the 
monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols: shoals of por- 
poises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the grampus 
slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the raven- 
ous shark, darting like a specter, through the blue waters. 
My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read 
of the watery world beneath me: of the finny herds that roam 
its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild 
phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 



THE VOYAGE. 13 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of hu- 
man invention; that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; 
has brought the ends of the world into communion; has 
established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the 
sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; has 
diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of culti- 
vated life; and has thus bound together those scattered por- 
tions of the human race, between which nature seemed to 
have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
tance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the 
surounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the 
mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for 
there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of 
the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their 
being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which 
the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had 
evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of shell- 
fish had fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its 
sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle 
has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of 
the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns 
of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed 
over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What 
sighs have been wafted after that ship; what prayers offered 
up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mis- 
tress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to 
catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! 
How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into 
dread, and dread into despair! Alas! not one memento shall 
ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known, 
is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard of 
more! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, 
when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to 
look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of 
those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the 
serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 
of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 



14 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

everyone had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was par- 
ticularly struck with a short one related by the captain: 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship, 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs 
that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to 
see far ahead, even in the daytime; but at night the weather 
was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice 
the length of the ship. I kept lights at the masthead, and 
a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The 
wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at 
a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave 
the alarm of 'a sail ahead! ' — it was scarcely uttered before 
we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, 
with a broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and 
had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- 
ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her 
down below the waves; we passed over her and were hurried 
on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath 
us I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rush- 
ing from her cabin; they just started from their beds to be 
swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning 
cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our 
ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget 
that cry! It was some time before we could put the ship 
about, she was under such headway. We returned as nearly 
as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. 
We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We 
fired signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo 
of any survivors; but all was silent — we never saw or heard 
anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea 
was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, 
sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds over- 
head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quiv- 
ered along the foaming billows and made the succeeding 
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the 
wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the 
mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plung- 
ing among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that 
she regained her balance or preserved her buoyancy. Her 



THE VOYAGE. 15 

yards would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried 
beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous move- 
ment of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin the awful scene still followed 
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded 
like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts; the 
straining and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship labored in 
the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves 
rushing along the side of the ship and roaring in my very 
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail, the 
yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is 
impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather 
and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her 
canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curl- 
ing waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears — how she 
seems to lord it over the deep! I might fill a volume with the 
reveries of a sea voyage; for with me it is almost a continual 
reverie — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
"Land!" was given from the masthead, mme but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom 
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume 
of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, 
teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, 
or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland 
stretching into the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering 
into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we 
sailed up the Mersey I reconnoitered the shores with a 
telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grassplots. I saw the 
moldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor- 
ing hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 



16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

people; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of 
friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculat- 
ing brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets, he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, 
in deference to his temporary importance. There were re- 
peated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the 
shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each 
other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble 
dress but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward 
from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it 
neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She 
seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill 
all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of everyone on 
board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread 
a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness 
had so increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only 
breathed a Avish that he might see his wife before he died. 
He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and 
was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so 
wasted, so pale, so ghastly that it was no wonder even the 
eye of affectio^r did not recognize him. But at the sound 
of his voice her eye darted on his features; it read, at once, 
a whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a 
faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of 
business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to 
meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my 
forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 



EOSCOE. 

In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd. 
And make us shine for ever— that is life. 

—Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal 



ROSCOE. 17 

and judicious plan; it contains a good library and spacious 
reading room, and is the great literary resort of the place. 
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my atten- 
tion was attracted to a person just entering the room. He 
was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once 
have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — 
perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of counte- 
nance; a head that would have pleased a painter; and though 
some slight furrows onh % brow showed that wasting thought 
had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire 
of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole appear- 
ance that indicated a being of a different order from the 
bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. 
I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with 
whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of 
America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know 
European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive 
of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pur- 
suits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the 
dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like 
superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their own 
genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici min- 
gling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my 
poetical ideas; but it is from the very circumstances and 
situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Eoscoe de- 
rives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to 
notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves; 
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their 
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. 
Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of 
art, with which it would rear legitimate dullness to maturity; 
and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance pro- 
ductions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and 
though some may perish among the stony places of the world, 
and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early 
adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of 
vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the 
very market place of trade; without fortune, family connec- 
tions, or patronage; self -prompted, self -sustained, and almost 
self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his 
way to eminence, and having become one of the ornaments 
of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and 
influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed;, it is this last trait of his character which has given 
him the greatest, interest in my eyes, and induced me particu- 
larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are 
his literary merits, he is but one among the many distin- 
guished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, 
in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleas- 
ures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, 
or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and incon- 
sistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the 
bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to indulge in the 
selfishness of lettered ease; and to revel in scenes of mental, 
but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- 
corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 
garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth 
into the highways and thoroughfares of life; he has planted 
bowers by the wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the 
laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the 
day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is 
a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate 
and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, 
because inimitable, example of excellence; but presents a pic- 
ture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are 
within every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not 
exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and 
the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser 
plants of daily necessity; and must depend for their culture, 
not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth; nor the 
quickening rays of titled patronage; but on hours and seasons 



ROSCOE. 19 

snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent 
and public-spirited individuals. ' 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give 
its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own 
Lorenzo de Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as 
on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history 
of his life with the history of his native town, and has made 
the foundations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. 
Wherever you go in Liverpool you perceive traces of his foot- 
steps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of 
wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic; he has di- 
verted from it invigorating rills to refresh the gardens of 
literature. By his own example and constant exertions he 
has effected that union of commerce and the intellectual pur- 
suits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writ- 
ings;* and has practically proved how beautifully they may 
be brought to harmonize and to benefit each other. The 
noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which 
reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an im- 
pulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and 
have all been effectively promoted by Mr. Roscoe; and when 
we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude 
of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance 
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening 
an ambition of mental improvement among its inhabitants 
he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British 
literature. 

In America we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his 
having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, 
as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above 
the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the world, 
and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of ad- 
versity; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the 
reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the 
resources of his own mind; to the superior society of his own 
thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, 
and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He 
is independent of the world around him. He lives with 
antiquity and with posterity: with antiquity, in the sweet 

* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution- 



20 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

communion of studious retirement; and with posterity in the 
generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such 
a mind is its state of highest enjo} T ment. It is then visited 
by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment 
of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the 
wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
fortune to light on farther traces of Mr. Eoscoe. I was rid- 
ing out with a gentleman to view the environs of Liverpool 
when he turned off through a gate into some ornamented 
grounds. After riding a short distance we came to a spacious 
mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not 
in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the 
situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, 
studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft 
fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey 
was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an 
expanse of green meadow land; while the Welsh mountains, 
blending with clouds and melting into distance, bordered the 
horizon. 

This was Eoscoe's favorite residence during the days of his 
prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and 
literary refinement. The house was now silent and deserted. 
I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the 
soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — 
the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were 
loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into re- 
tainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain 
that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but 
finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brood- 
ing over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Eoscoe's library, which had 
consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which 
he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had 
passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dis- 
persed about the country. 

The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to 
get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on 
shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations we 
might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption 
into the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
armory of a giant and contending for the possession of 
weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to 



ROSCOE. 21 

ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating 
brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an 
obsolete author; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, 
with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into 
the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis- 
fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 
mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched 
upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only cir- 
cumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The 
scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, com- 
panions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the 
season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross 
around us, these only retain their steady value. When 
friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes 
into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the 
unaltered countenance of happier days and cheer us with that 
true friendship which never deceived hope nor deserted 
sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liver- 
pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. 
Roscoe and to themselves, his library would never have been 
sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the 
circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with 
others that might seem merely fanciful; but it certainly ap- 
pears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs of cheer- 
ing a noble mind struggling under misfortunes by one of 
the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of public sym- 
pathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius 
properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes min- 
gled and confounded with other men. His great qualities 
lose their novelty, and we become too familiar with the com- 
mon materials which form the basis even of the loftiest char- 
acter. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him 
merely as a man of business; other as a politician; all find 
him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and 
surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly 
wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity 
of character which gives the nameless grace to real excel- 
lence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, 
who do not know that true worth is always void of 
glare and pretension. But the man of letters who speaks of 
Liverpool speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. The intel- 



22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ligent traveler who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be 
seen. He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating 
its existence to the distant scholar. He is like Pompey's 
column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books, on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction that the 
whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from 
the writer's heart: 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore; 
When freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter! 

— MlDDLETON. 

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for- 
tune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man 
and prostrate him in the dust seem to call forth all the ener- 
gies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation 
to their character that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and 
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence 
and alive to every trivial roughness while threading the pros- 



THE WIFE. 23 

perous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be 
the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfor- 
tune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest 
blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when 
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 
with its caressing tendrils and bind up its shattered boughs; 
so is it beautifully ordered by Providence that woman, who 
is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier 
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden 
calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his 
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head and binding 
up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend who had around him 
a blooming family knit together in the strongest affection. 
" I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, 
" than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, 
there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there 
they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that 
a married man falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve 
his situation in the world than a single one; partly, because 
he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the 
helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for sub- 
sistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and re- 
lieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept 
alive by finding that though all abroad is darkness and 
humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home 
of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt 
to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and 
abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted 
mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend Leslie had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who ha'd been 
brought up in the midst of a fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he 
delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every ele- 
gant pursuit and administering to those delicate tastes and 
fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. " Her 
life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a har- 
monious combination; he was of a romantic and somewhat 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her 
in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the 
delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would 
still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and 
acceptance. When leaning on his arm her slender form con- 
trasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, confid- 
ing air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth 
a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if 
he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. 
Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early 
and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations; and he had not 
been married many months when, by a succession of sudden 
disasters, it was swept from him and he found himself reduced 
to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to him- 
self, and went about with a haggard countenance and a break- 
ing heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what 
rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping 
up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring 
himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, 
with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with 
him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was 
not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheer- 
fulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only 
drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause 
to love her the more torturing was the thought that he was 
soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and 
the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die 
away from those lips — the luster of those eyes will be 
quenched with sorrow — and the happy heart which now beats 
lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by 
the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had 
heard him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all 
this? " At the question he burst into an agony of tears. 
"For God's sake! " cried he, "if you have any pity on me, 
don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives 
me almost to madness! " 

"And why not!" said I. "She must know it sooner or 



THE WIFE. 25 

later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften 
the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of 
the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also 
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — 
an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will 
soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your 
mind; and true love will not brook reserve; it feels under- 
valued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves 
are concealed from it." 

" Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul 
to the earth by telling her that her husband is a beggar! — 
that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleas- 
ures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and 
obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged -her down from 
the sphere in which she might have continued to move in 
constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration 
of every heart! How can she bear poverty? She has been 
brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she 
bear neglect? She has been the idol of society. Oh, it will 
break her heart — it will break her heart! " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but 
positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 
the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your 
style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his 
countenance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have 
never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet 
friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you 
for being less splendidly lodged; and surely it does not re- 
quire a palace to be happy with Mary " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he convulsively, " in a 
hovel! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! 
— I could — I could — God bless her! — God bless her! " cried 
he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and 



26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be 
the same with you. Ay, more; it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies 
and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to 
prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true 
woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire which lies dormant 
in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up 
and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what 
a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her 
through the fiery trials of the world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner 
and the figurative style of my language that caught the ex- 
cited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to 
deal with; and following up the impression I had made, I 
finished by persuading him to go home and unburthen his 
sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the 
fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleas- 
ures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward 
path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
reveled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by 
so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is 
a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morn- 
ing without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it? " 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor 
girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must 
undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; 
she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. 
She feels as yet no privation; she suffers no loss of accus- 
tomed conveniences nor elegancies. "When we come prac- 
tically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 
humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest 
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortify- 
ing; but then it is a single misery and soon over; whereas you 
otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. 



THE WIFE. 27 

It is not poverty so much as pretense that harasses a ruined 
man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse 
— the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an 
end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm pov- 
erty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie per- 
fectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and, as to 
his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 
fortunes. 

Some days afterward he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cot- 
tage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish- 
ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. 
All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely 
associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little 
story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their 
courtship were those when he had leaned over that instru- 
ment and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could 
not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a 
doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife has 
been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
story, and as it was a fine evening I offered to accompany 
him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary! "■ at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

" And what of her," asked I, " has anything happened to 
her? " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it noth- 
ing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in 
a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial 
concerns of her wretched habitation ? " 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Eepined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort! " 

" Admirable girl! " exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, 
my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the 



28 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that 
woman." 

" Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over I think I could then be comfortable. But this is 
her first day of real experience; she has been introduced into 
an humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in ar- 
ranging its miserable equipments — she has for the first time 
known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has for 
the first time looked around her on a home destitute of every- 
thing elegant — almost of everything convenient; and may 
now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over 
a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air 
of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet 
it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one 
end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their 
branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of 
flowers tastefully disposed about the door and on the grass- 
plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath 
that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as 
we approached we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped 
my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, sing- 
ing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air 
of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the 
gravel walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the 
window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary 
came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural 
dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine 
hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance 
beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come; 
I have been watching and watching for you; and running 
down the lane and looking out for 3 T ou. I've set out a table 
under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been 
gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know 
you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — 
and everything is so sweet and still here. Oh! " said she, 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 29 

putting her arm within his and looking up brightly in his 
face. " oh, we shall be so happy! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — 
he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again 
— he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and 
he has often assured me that though the world has since gone 
prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy 
one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more ex- 
quisite felicity. 



[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, 
who was very curious in the Dutch History of the province, 
and the manners of the descendants from its primitive set- 
tlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much 
among books as among men; for the former are lamentably 
scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old 
burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in that legendary 
lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he 
happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in 
its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he 
looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black letter, and 
studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the prov- 
ince, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he 
published some years since. There have been various opin- 
ions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the 
truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief 
merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, indeed, was a little 
questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been com- 
pletely established; and it is now admitted into all historical 
collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 
work, and now, that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much 
harm to his memory, to say, that his time might have been 
much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was 
apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now 
and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, 
and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the 
truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are 
remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," * and it begins 

* Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplanck, Esq., before the 
New York Historical Society. 



30 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. 
But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is 
still held dear among many folk, whose good opinion is well 
worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year 
cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality, 
almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a 
Queen Anne's farthing.] 



EIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever 1 will keep 

Unto thy Ike day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre. 

—Cart weight. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remem- 
ber the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered 
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to 
the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lord- 
ing it over the surrounding country. Every change of sea- 
son, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, 
produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains; and they are regarded by all the good Avives, far 
and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair 
and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print 
their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, 
when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather 
a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last 
rays of the setting sun, will glow and ligli up like a crown of 
glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints 
of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer 
landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having 
been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 
times of the province, just about the beginning of the gov- 
ernment of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!) 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 31 

and there were some of the houses of the original settlers 
standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks 
brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather 
beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, 
of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendent of the 
Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days 
of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of 
Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he 
was a simple, good-natured man; he was moreover a kind 
neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to 
the latter circumstances might be owing that meekness of 
spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those 
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, 
who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tem- 
pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery 
furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth 
all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of 
patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, there- 
fore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and 
if so, Eip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives cf the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took 
his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever 
they talked these matters over in their evening gossipings, 
to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of 
the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he ap- 
proached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them 
long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. ' Whenever he 
went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop 
of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and 
playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a 
dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 
from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit 
on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, 
and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should 



32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a 
fowling piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, 
to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never 
refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was 
a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn 
or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, 
used to employ him to run errands, and to do such odd jobs 
as their less obliging husbands would not do for them; — in 
a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his 
own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in 
order, he found it impossible. 

In fact he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong 
in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; 
his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; 
weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere 
else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial 
estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by 
acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of 
Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned 
farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son Eip, an urchin begotten in his 
own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old 
clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like 
a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's 
cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with 
one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, 
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, 
eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least 
thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than 
work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled 
life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continu- 
ally dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, 
and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 

Morning, noon, and night her tongue was incessantly 
going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a 
torrent of household eloquence. Eip had but one way of 
replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 

had grown into a ha,bit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook 
his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, 
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was 
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house 
— the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked 
husband. 

Kip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was 
as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle re- 
garded them as companions in idleness, and even looked 
upon Wolf with an evil eye as the cause of his master's going 
so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an 
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever- 
during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The 
moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped 
to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame 
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, 
he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Kip Van Winkle, as years 
of matrimony rolled on: a tart temper never mellows with 
age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows 
keener from constant use. For a long while he used to con- 
sole himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind 
of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle 
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench 
before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his 
majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade, 
of a long, lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over 
village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. 
But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have 
heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, 
when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from 
some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to 
the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to 
be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and 
how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some 
months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junta were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord 
of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morn- 
ing till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and 



34 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could 
tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun- 
dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his 
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great 
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew 
how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or 
related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe 
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry 
puffs; but when pleased he would inhale the smoke slowly 
and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and 
sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his 
head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in 
upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members 
all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Ved- 
der himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible 
virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her hus- 
band in habits of idleness. 

Poor Eip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his 
only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm and the 
clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the 
foot of a tree and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, 
with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu- 
tion. " Poor Wolf," he would say; " thy mistress leads thee 
a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad; whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee! " Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs 
can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment 
with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
the Kaatskili Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of 
squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re- 
echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, 
he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll 
covered with mountain herbage that crowned the brow of the 
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could over- 
look all the lower country for many a mile of rich wood- 
knd. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 
him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the renec- 



BIP VAN WINKLE. 35 

tion of a purple cloud or the sail of a lagging bark here and 
there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- 
ments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted from 
the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay 
musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the 
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the 
valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could 
reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend he heard a voice from a dis- 
tance hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " He 
looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its 
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when 
he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, 
" Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " At the same time 
Wolf bristled up his back, and, giving a low growl, skulked 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. 
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he 
looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a 
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under 
the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfre- 
quented place, but supposing it to be someone of the 
neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to 
yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square- 
built old fellow, with thick bushy hair and a grizzled beard. 
His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin 
strapped round the waist, several pair of breeches, the outer 
one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down 
the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoul- 
ders a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and made signs 
for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip 
complied with his usual alacrity, and, mutually relieving each 
other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry 
bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
and then heard long rolling peals like distant thunder, that 



36 THE 8KETCU-B00K. 

seemed to issue out of a deep ravine or rather cleft between 
lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He 
paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering 
of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take 
place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through 
the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, 
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of 
which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only 
caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had 
labored on in silence; for, though the former marveled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor 
up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and 
incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder pre- 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a com- 
pany of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They 
were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore short 
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and 
most of them had enormous breeches of similar style with that 
of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar. One had a 
large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was sur- 
mounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red 
cock's tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colors. 
There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was 
a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; 
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned 
hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes with 
roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures 
in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominie Van 
Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces,' the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he 
had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the 
scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were 
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of 
thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 



HIP VAN WINKLE. 37 

denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such 
a fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack- 
luster countenances, that his heart turned within him and 
his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the 
contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him 
to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trem- 
bling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then 
returned > their game. 

By degrees Kip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bev- 
erage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent 
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at 
length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed 
his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was 
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Eip, " I have not slept here all night/' 
He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The 
strange man with the keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — ■ 
the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone party at 
nine-pins — the flagon. " Oh, that wicked flagon! " thought 
Eip. " What excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, 
well-oiled fowling piece he found an old firelock lying beside 
him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and 
the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave 
roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, 
having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. 
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away 
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and 
shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his 
whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party to demand his 
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in 
the joints and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun- 
tain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this 



38 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

frolic should lay me up with a fit of rheumatism, I shall have 
a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some diffi- 
culty he got down into the glen. He found the gully up 
which he and his companion had ascended the preceding 
evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was 
now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling 
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift 
to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted 
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such 
opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable 
wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of 
feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from 
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Eip 
was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after 
his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of 
idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that over- 
hung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, 
seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. 
What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and 
Eip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to 
give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but 
it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook 
his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and with a heart full 
of trouble and anxiety turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for 
he had thought himself acquainted with everyone in the 
country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 
from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at 
him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 
eyes upon him invariably stroked their chins. The constant 
recurrence of this gesture induced Eip involuntarily to do 
the same, when to his astonishment he found his beard had 
grown a foot long. 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 
pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which 
he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 39 

passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and 
more populous. There were rows of houses which he had 
never seen before, and those which had been his familiar 
haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors 
— strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His 
mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he 
and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this 
was his native village, which he had left but a day before. 
There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver 
Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely 
as it had always been. Kip was sorely perplexed. " That 
flagon last night/' thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly.! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting 
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. 
He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half - 
starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. 
Eip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut, indeed. " My 
very dog,' v sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for- 
lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame 
all his connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and 
children. The lonely chambers rang for a moment with his 
voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
village inn; but it, too, was gone. A large rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and 
over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan 
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the 
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, 
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red 
night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a 
singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange 
and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 
so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue 
and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath 
was painted, in large characters, General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
none that Kip recollected. The very character of the people 
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Ved- 
der, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, 
uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; 
or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents 
of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious- 
looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was har- 
anguing vehemently about rights of citizens — election — 
members of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of 
seventy-six — and other words that were a perfect Babylonish 
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Eip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of 
women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon 
attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They 
crowded round him, eying him from head to foot with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him 
partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted ? " Eip stared 
in vacant stupidity. Another short, but busy, fellow pulled 
him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe inquired in his ear 
" whether he was Federal or Democrat." Eip was equally at 
a loss to comprehend the question, when a knowing, self-im- 
portant old gentleman in a sharp cocked hat made his way 
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with 
his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van 
Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, 
his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his 
very soul, demanded in an austere tone " what brought him 
to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his 
heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Eip, somewhat dismayed, "I 
am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal sub- 
ject of the king — God bless him! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders: " A Tory! 
a Tory! a spy! a refugee! Hustle him! away with him! " 

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in 
the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 41 

what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but 
merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who 
used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well, who are they ? Name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's 
Nicholas Vedder? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
inquired in a thin, piping voice: " Nicholas Vedder? Why, 
he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a 
wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all 
about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Duteher? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; 
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point, others 
say he was drowned in the squall at the foot of Anthony's 
Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." 

" Whereas Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? " 

" He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, 
and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and rinding himself thus alone in the 
world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such 
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not 
understand. War — Congress — Stony Point! He had no 
courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in de- 
spair: " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle? " 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle! " exclaimed two or three. " Oh, to 
be sure! That's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as 
he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy and certainly 
as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or 
another man. In the midst of his bewilderment the man in 
the cocked hat demanded who he was and what was his 
name. 

"God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else; that's me yonder — no, that's 
somebody else got into my shoes. I was myself last night, 
but I feil asleep on the mountain — and they've changed my 
gun — and everything's changed — and I'm changed — and I 
can't tell what's my name, or who I am! " 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. 
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun and keep- 
ing the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very sugges- 
tion of which the self-important man with the cocked hat 
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a 
fresh, comely woman passed through the throng to get a peep 
at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, 
Rip/ 7 cried she; " hush, you little fool; the old man won't 
hurt you." The name .of the child, the air of the mother, 
the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in 
his mind. 

" What is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

"Ah, the poor man! his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and never has been heard of since; his dog came home with- 
out him: But whether he shot himself or was carried away 
by the Indians nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with 
a faltering voice: 

" Where's your mother? " 

" Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke 
a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father! " 
cried he. " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 
under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed: " Sure 
enough! It is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome 
home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these 
twenty long years? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and 
put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man 
in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had re- 
turned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 43 

and shook his head, upon which there was a general shaking 
of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the 
road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter 
was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed 
in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbor- 
hood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story 
in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company 
that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor, the his- 
torian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the 
great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and 
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years with 
his crew of the Half -Moon, being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river and the great city called by his name. That 
his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that 
he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of 
their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Bip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house and a stout, cheery farmer for a 
husband, whom Eip recollected for one of the urchins that 
used to climb upon his back. As to Kip's son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm; but evinced a hereditary dis- 
position to work at anything else but his business. 

Eip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he 
took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and 
was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village and a 
chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some 
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or 
could be made to comprehend the strange events that had 



44 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

taken place during his torpor — how that there had been a 
revolutionary war; that the country had thrown off the yoke 
of old England; and that, instead of being a subject of his 
majesty George III., he was now a free citizen of the United 
States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states 
and empires made but little impression on him; but there 
was one species of despotism under which he had long 
groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily, that 
was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- 
mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 
name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged 
his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either 
for an expression of resignation to his fate or joy at his 
deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing 
to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down 
precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or 
child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always 
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had 
been out of his head, and that this was one point on which 
he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, how- 
ever, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, 
they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about 
the Kaatskill but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew 
are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of 
all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs 
heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting 
draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

Note.— The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knicker- 
bocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart 
and the Kypphauser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had appended 
to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with bis* usual fidelity. 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I 

five it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have 
een very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, 1 have heard many 
stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well 
authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 
who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational 
and consistent on every other point that I think no conscientious person could refuse 
to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before 
a country justice, and signed with a cross,in the justice's own handwriting. The story, 
therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING, 45 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

If that severe doom of Synesius be true — " it is a greater offense to 
steal dead men's labors than their clothes " — what shall become of most 
writers? — Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." 

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on 
which Nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, 
yet teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, 
however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily 
diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple 
cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, 
in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder 
upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of 
the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my 
astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons 
of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one 
is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather; sometimes 
lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying 
the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes 
trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the alle- 
gorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing 
about in this idle way my attention was attracted to a dis- 
tant door at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, 
but every now and then it would open and some strange- 
favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth 
and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the 
surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this 
that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to at- 
tempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my hand with 
all that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles 
yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in 
a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable 
books. Above the cases and just under the cornice were 
arranged a great number of quaint, black-looking portraits 
of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

with stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, 
cadaverous personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
rummaging among moldy manuscripts, and taking copious 
notes of their contents. The most hushed stillness reigned 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might 
hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or, occasionally, 
the deep sigh of one of these sages as he shifted his position 
to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising from 
that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a 
familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, 
glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with pon- 
derous tomes, upon which the other would fall, tooth and 
nail, with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I 
had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the 
study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old 
Arabian tale, of a philosopher who was shut up in an en- 
chanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, that opened only 
once a year; where he made the spirits of the place obey his 
commands, and bring him books of all kinds of dark knowl- 
edge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic portal 
once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed 
in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the 
multitude, and to control the powers of Xature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of 
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged 
an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few 
words were sufficient for the purpose: — I found that these 
mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were 
principally authors, and were in the very act of manufactur- 
ing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great 
British Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages 
and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most 
of which are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of 
obsolete literature, therefore, do many modern authors repair, 
and draw buckets full of classic lore, cr " pure English, unde- 
filed," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a cor- 
ner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. I 
noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but 
the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He 
was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition^ 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. ±1 

that would be purchased by every man who wished to be 
thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his 
library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. I ob- 
served him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit 
out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or 
whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of 
the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry works, I 
leave to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright colored 
clothes, with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, 
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with 
his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recog- 
nized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, 
which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see 
how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show 
of business than any of the others; dipping into various books, 
fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out 
of one, a morsel out of another, " line upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his 
book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' 
caldron in " Macbeth." It was here a finger and there a 
thumb, toe of frog and a blind worm's sting, with his own 
gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the medley 
" slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes? may it not be the 
way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of 
knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in 
spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were 
first produced? We see that Nature has wisely, though 
whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime 
to clime, in the maws of certain birds; so that animals, which, 
in themselves, are little better than carrion, and apparently 
the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, 
in fact, Nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her bless- 
ings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of 
ancient and obsolete writers are caught up by these flights of 
predatory authors, and cast forth, again to flourish and bear 
fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their 
works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up 
under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous history, 
revives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into 
a modern play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. 
Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands; where 
we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf 
oaks start up in their place; and we never see the prostrate 
trunk of a tree, moldering into soil, but it gives birth to a 
whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the 
great law of Nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes 
of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which de- 
crees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Genera- 
tion after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes 
away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and 
the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget 
authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good 
old age they sleep with their fathers; that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works; 
or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the lassitude aris- 
ing from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of napping 
at improper times and places, with which I am grievously 
afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my 
imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene re- 
mained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some 
of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still deco- 
rated with the portraits of ancient authors, but the number 
was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place 
of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such 
as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off 
clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a 
book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- 
thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique 
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I 
noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe himself 
from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape 
from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out 
piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out 
from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
ogling several moldy polemical writers through an eyeglass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 49 

the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of an- 
other, endeavored to look exceedingly wise; but the smirking 
commonplace of his countenance set at nought all the trap- 
pings of wisdom. One sickly looking gentleman was busied 
embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn 
out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Eliza- 
beth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an 
illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from " The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having 
put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted 
off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who 
was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out 
bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of phi- 
losophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but he was 
lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had 
patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a 
Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among 
their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, 
seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely 
to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and 
spirit; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array 
themselves, from top to toe, in the patchwork manner I have 
mentioned. I should not omit to speak of one genius, in 
drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a 
violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wander- 
ings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, 
and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked him- 
self in wreaths and ribands from all the old pastoral poets, 
and hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantas- 
tical, lackadaisical air, "babbling about green fields." But 
the personage that most struck my attention, was a prag- 
matical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably 
large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheez- 
ing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a 
look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a 
thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept ma- 
jestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " Thieves! thieves! " I looked, 
and lo! the portraits about the walls became animated! The 
old authors thrust out first a head, then a shoulder, from the 



50 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the mot- 
ley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to 
claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and 
hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy 
culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On 
one side might be seen half-a-dozen old monks, stripping a 
modern professor; on another, there was sad devastation 
carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like 
Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more 
wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. 
As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some 
time since, he had arrived himself in as many patches and 
colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of 
claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. 
I was grieved to see many men, whom I had been accustomed 
to look upon with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with 
scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was 
caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek 
grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright with 
half a score of authors in full cry after him. They were close 
upon his haunches; in a twinkling off went his wig; at every 
turn some strip of raiment was peeled away; until in a few 
moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little 
pursy, " chopp'd bald shot," and made his exit with only a 
few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual 
appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture- 
frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In 
short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the 
whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with astonish- 
ment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of 
laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, 
and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the 
fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not com- 
prehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of 
literary " preserve," subject to game laws, and that no one 
must presume to hunt there without special license and per- 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 51 

mission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant 
poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I 
should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is wrought 
In time's great periods shall return to nought, 

I know that all the muses' heavenly layes, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

— Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half dreaming moods of mind, in which 
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some 
quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build 
our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering 
about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying 
that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection; when suddenly an irruption of 
madcap boys from Westminster School, playing at football, 
broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making 
the vaulted passages and moldering tombs echo with their 
merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by 
penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and 
applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. 
He conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling 
sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas- 
sage leading to the Chapter-house and the chamber in which 
the Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is 
a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; 
it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if 
seldom used. We now ascended a dark, narrow staircase, and 
passing through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported 
by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted 
by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from 
the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of 
the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dig- 
nitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. 
Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, ar- 
ranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of 
old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time 



52 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

than use. In the center of the library was a solitary table, 
with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and 
a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted 
for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried 
deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from 
the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the 
shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 
and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echoed 
soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts 
of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died 
away. The bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned 
through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound 
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the 
table in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, how- 
ever, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless 
quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked 
around upon the old volumes in their moldering covers, thus 
ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their 
repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary 
catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously en- 
tombed, and left to blacken and molder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head — 
how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! How 
have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells 
and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and 
the still more blessed face of nature; and devoted them- 
selves to painful research and intense reflection! And all 
for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the titles 
of their works read now and then in a future age by some 
drowsy churchman, or casual straggler like myself; and in 
another age to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the 
amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary 
rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has 
just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment 
— lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away, like 
a thing that was not! 

While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating these un- 
profitable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, 
I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until 
I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my utter aston- 
ishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 53 

awaking from a deep sleep; then a husky hem, and at length 
began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, 
being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious 
spider had woven across it; and having probably contracted 
a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the 
abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, 
and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable little 
tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obso- 
lete, and its pronunciation what in the present day would 
be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am 
able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other 
such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained 
bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two cen- 
turies; — that the Dean only looked now and^then into the 
library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with 
them for a few moments, and then returned them to their 
shelves. 

"What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, 
which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what 
a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes 
of us shut up here and watched by a set of old vergers, like 
so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now 
and then by the Dean? Books were written to give pleasure 
and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the 
Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or if 
he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose 
the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate 
we may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your gen- 
eration. By being stored away in this ancient library you 
are like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs 
which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels; while the re- 
mains of their cotemporary mortals, left to the ordinary 
course of nature, have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking 
big, " I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms 
of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
like other great contemporary works; but here have I been 
clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have 
silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the 



54 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance 
given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before 
I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are 
now well stricken in years; very few of your contemporaries 
can be at present in existence; and those few owe their 
longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries; 
which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you 
might more properly and gratefully have compared to those 
infirmaries attached to religious establishments for the bene- 
fit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and 
no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for- 
nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in 
circulation — where do we meet with their works? — what do 
we hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln? No one could have 
toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, 
a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name: but, alas! the 
pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely dis- 
turbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of 
Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, 
theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he 
might shut himself up and write for posterity; but posterity 
never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Hunting- 
don, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a 
treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has 
revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of 
Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? 
Of his three great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting 
a mere fragment; the others are known only to a few of the 
curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, 
they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of 
John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the 
tree of life? — of William of Malmsbury; of Simeon of Dur- 
ham; of Benedict of Peterborough; of John Hanvill of St. 
Albans; of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, " how 
old do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived 
long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, 
so that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 55 

to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from 
the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written 
in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had 
become fixed; and, indeed, I was considered a model of pure 
and elegant English/' 

[I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite diffi- 
culty in rendering them into modern phraseology.] 

" I cry you mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age; but 
it matters little; almost all the writers of your time have like- 
wise passed into forgetfulness; and De Worde's publications 
are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity 
and stability of language, too, on which you found your 
claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of 
authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy 
Eobert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of 
mongrel Saxon. f Even now, many talk of Spenser's ' well 
of pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang 
from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere 
confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes 
and intermixtures. It is this which has made English litera- 
ture so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it 
so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something 
more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, 
even thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall 
into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity 
and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the 
language in which he has embarked his fame gradually alter- 
ing, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice 
of fashion. He looks back, and beholds the early authors of 
his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to 
endyte, and have many noble things fulfilde, but certes there ben some 
that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen 
have as good a fantasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen's Englishe. 
— Chaucer's " Testament of Love." 

f Holinshed, in his "Chronicle," observes: "Afterwards, also, by 
diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Gowrie, in the time of 
Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, 
monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, not- 
withstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the 
time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum. John 
Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accom- 
plished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal 
commendation." 



56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

modern writers: a few short ages have covered them with 
obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint 
taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be 
the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired 
in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will, in the 
course of years, grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall 
become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an 
Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Eunic inscriptions, said to 
exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with 
some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library filled 
with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and bind- 
ing, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; like the good 
Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the 
splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hundred 
years not one of them would be in existence! " 

"Ah!" said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
how it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the 
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but 
Sir Philip Sidney's ' Arcadia/ Sackville's stately plays and 
' Mirror for Magistrates/ or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 
' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I; " the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so 
when you were last in circulation, have long since had their 
day. Sir Philip Sidney's ' Arcadia/ the immortality of 
which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, 
in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and 
graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. 
Saekville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though 
his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently 
perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by 
name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled 
at the time, have likewise gone down with all their writings 
and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding 
literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, 
that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after 

* Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the 
golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world that 
thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the 
honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale 
and the intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue 
of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of 
excellency in print. — Harvey's "Pierce's Supererogation." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 57 

fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratifica- 
tion of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability 
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit 
of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason 
from analogy: we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes 
of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields 
for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for 
their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of 
nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing: the earth 
would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its sur- 
face become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works 
of genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent 
productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade 
away the writings of authors who have flourished their 
allotted time; otherwise the creative powers of genius would 
overstock the world, and the mind would be completely be- 
wildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there 
were some restraints on this excessive multiplication: works 
had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and labori- 
ous operation; they were written either on parchment, which 
was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make 
way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and ex- 
tremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofita- 
ble craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude 
of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow 
and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To 
these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that 
we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that 
the fountains of thoughts have not been broken up, and 
modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions 
of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints: 
they have made everyone a writer, and enabled every mind to 
pour itself into print and diffuse itself over the whole intel- 
lectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream 
of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a 
river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or 
six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but what 
would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing 
three or four hundred thousand volumes: legions of authors 
at the same time busy; and a press going on with fearfully 
increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? 
Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the 



58 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

progeny of the Muse, now that she has become so prolific, 
I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of lan- 
guage will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it in- 
creases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of 
those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. 
All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to 
the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in 
vain; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers 
will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with 
good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime 
merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable in- 
formation at the present day reads scarcely anything but 
reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be little 
better than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I per- 
ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of 
an author who was making some noise just as I left the 
world. His reputation, however, was considered quite tem- 
porary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was 
a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin and 
nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country 
for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspere. I pre- 
sume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man 
that the literature of his period has experienced a duration 
beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There arise 
authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability 
of language, because they have rooted themselves in the un- 
changing principles of human nature. They are like gigan- 
tic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, 
which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the 
mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the 
earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away 
by the overflowing current, and hold up many a neighbor- 
ing plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such 
is the case with Shakspere, whom we behold, defying the 
encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language 
and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an 
indifferent author merely from having flourished in his vicin- 
ity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the 
tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of 
commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, 
almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 59 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter 
that had well-nigh choked him by reason of his excessive 
corpulency. " Mighty well! " cried he, as soon as he could 
recover breath, "mighty well! and so you would persuade me 
that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vaga- 
bond deer-stealer! by a man without learning! by a poet! for- 
sooth—a poet! " And here he wheezed forth another fit of 
laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- 
ished m a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not 
to give up my point. 

1. \ YeS i! r ? umed J Positively, "a poet; for of all writers 
he has the best chance of immortality. Others may write 
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart 
will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer 
01 JNature, whose features are always the same, and always 
interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; 
their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts 
expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every- 
thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. , He gives the choicest 
thoughts m the choicest language. He illustrates them by 
everything that he sees most striking in nature and art He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is, passing 
betore him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
1 hey are caskets which inclose within a small compass the 
wealth of the language— its family jewels, which are thus 
transmitted m a portable form to posterity. The setting may 
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be 
renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and 
intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look 
back over the long reach of literary history. What vast val- 
leys of dullness, filled with monkish legends and academical 
controversies ! What bogs c f theological speculations ! What 
dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only do we 
behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on 
their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure light of 
poetical intelligence from age to age." * 

* Thorow earth, and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
Ana featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
And shoes us in a glasse, 



60 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused 
me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
silent; the clasps were closed; and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed, I have been to the library two 
or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into 
further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this ram- 
bling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, 
to this moment, been able to discover. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspere would dream ; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallowed" the turf is which pillowed his head. 

— Garrick. 



To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling 
of something like independence and territorial consequence, 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts 
his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. 
Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, 
so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the 
time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm- 
chair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the little parlor, 
of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a 
morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertain- 
ties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pil- 
grimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding 
even morsels and moments of enjoyment, " Shall I not take 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 61 

mine ease in mine inn? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, 
lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspere were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I 
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My 
dream of absolute diminion was at an end; so abdicating my 
throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and 
putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspere, 
the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring, for it was about the 
middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild 
air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life 
into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth 
into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakspere was born, and where, 
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft 
of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood 
and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to 
delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of 
its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions 
in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and condi- 
tions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a simple, 
but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal hom- 
age of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an ex- 
ceeding dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibit- 
ing the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, 
abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very match- 
lock with which Shakspere shot the deer, on his poaching 
exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that 
he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also 
with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

which Friar Lawrence discovered Borneo and Juliet at the 
tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakspere's mul- 
berry tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of 
self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of winch 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shaks- 
pere's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the 
slowly revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; or of 
an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, 
dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the 
troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom 
of everyone who visits the house to sit: whether this be done 
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, 
I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact; and my 
hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be 
new-bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of 
notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it 
partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa 
of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for 
though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very will- 
ing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs noth- 
ing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and 
local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would advise 
all travelers who travel for their gratification to be the same. 
What is it to us whether these stories be true or false so long 
as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and en- 
joy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like reso- 
lute good-humored credulity in these matters; and on this 
occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims 
of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, un- 
luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at 
defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakspere a few paces brought me 
to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, moldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on 



8 TEA TFOBD- ON A VON 6 3 

an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from 
the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired: 
the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and 
the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into 
its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which 
are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched 
way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the 
church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the 
gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are 
half-covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the rev- 
erend old building. Small birds have built their nests among 
the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 
flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing and cawing about 
its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 
church. He had lived in Stratford, man and bov for eighty 
years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, 
with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of 
his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows; and 
was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which per- 
vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor, carefully scrubbed, served 
for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Eows of pewter and earthen 
dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, 
well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer 
book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed 
of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient 
clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on 
the opposite side of the room; with a bright warming-pan 
hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide 
and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In 
one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty 
blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannu- 
ated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, 
and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. 
They had played together in infancy; they had worked to- 
gether in manhood; they were now tottering about and gos- 
siping away the evening of life; and in a short time they will 
probably be buried together in the neighboring churchyard. 
It is not often that we see two streams of existence running 



64 . THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such 
quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval, during which Shakspere's 
writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow 
over history; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely any- 
thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of 
conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford 
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, ac- 
cording to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively 
and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down 
Shakspere's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspere 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly 
her remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton even ex- 
pressed a doubt as to Shakspere having been born in her 
house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter hav- 
ing comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians 
differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of 
truth diverge into different channels, even at the fountain- 
head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with 
carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and 
the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most 
country churches. There are several ancient monuments of 
nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral 
escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 
The tomb of Shakspere is in the chancel. The place is 
solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed 
windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 
the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone 
marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four 
lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and 



STB A TFOBD- ON A VON 6 5 

which have in them something extremely awful. If they are 
indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of 
the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
thoughtful minds: 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspere, put up shortly after his death, and considered as 
a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
finely arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he 
was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease — fifty-three years; an untimely 
death for the world: for what fruit might not have been ex- 
pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 
it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and nourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favor! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into his grave. No 
one, however, presumed to meddle with the remains so 
awfully guarded by a malediction, and lest any of the idle or 
the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to 
commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place 
for two days, until the vault was finished, and the aperture 
closed again. He told me he had made bold to look in at the 
hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. 
It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakspere. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, 
also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend, John Coombe, of 
usurious memory; on whom he is said to have written a ludi- 
crous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the 
mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected with 



66 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Shakspere. His idea pervades the place — the whole pile 
seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect con- 
fidence: other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here 
is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the 
sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrill- 
ing in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspere 
were moldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before 
I could prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as I 
passed through the cl archyard, I plucked a branch from one 
of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from 
Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at 
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspere, 
in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, com- 
mitted his youthful offense of deer-stealing. In this hare- 
brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and 
carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in 
doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and 
humiliating; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a 
rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at 
Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so in- 
censed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the 
severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. 
Shakspere did not wait to brave the united puissance of a 
Knight of the Shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon, and his paternal 
trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to the 
theaters; then an actor; and, finally, wrote for the stage; and 
thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : 

" A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it, 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his s'ate, 
We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it." 



STRA TFORD- ON A VON 6 1 

lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an im- 
mortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense 
of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged 
himself in his writings; but in the sportive way of a good- 
natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Jus- 
tice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the 
justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the Knight, 
had white luces * in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; 
but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspere, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When 
left to itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every- 
thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
turn out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not Shaks- 
pere's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt, that, in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he 
was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd and 
anomalous characters; that he associated with all the madcaps 
of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at men- 
tion of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they 
will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in 
Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scot- 
tish Knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagi- 
nation, as something delightfully adventurous. f 

*The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Char- 
lecot. 

f A proof of Shakspere's random habits and associates in his youth- 
ful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Strat- 
ford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on 
the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of 
Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used 
to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge 
the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages, to a contest of drink- 
ing. Among others, the people" of Stratford were called out to prove 
the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was 
Shakspere, who, in spite of the proverb, that " they who drink beer 
will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The 



68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
interesting from being connected with this whimsical but 
eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As 
the house stood at little more than three miles' distance from 
Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which 
Shakspere must have derived his earliest ideas of rural 
imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the tem- 
perature of the weather was surprising in its quickening 
effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating 
to witness this first awakening of spring; to feel its warm 
breath stealing over the senses; to see the moist mellow earth 
beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade; 
and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting 
buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on the skirts of win- 
ter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small 
gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt 
lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twit- 
tered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin 
threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; 
and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the 
meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring 
forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still 

chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a re- 
treat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They Lad 
scarcely marched a mile, when, their legs failing them, they were forced 
to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed the night. It is still 
standing, and goes by the name of Shakspere's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed re- 
turning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having 
drunk with 

"Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford." 

** The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets 
thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill 
on the pipe and tabor ; Hillborongh is now called Haunted Hill- 
borough ; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 60 

filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspere's exquisite 
little song in " Cymbeline": 

" Hark ! hark ! the lark at heav'n's gate sings 
And Phoebus 'gius arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 
On chalic'd flowers that lies. 

" And winking mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise ! " 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground: 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakspere. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amuse- 
ment in winter evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell merry 
tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, 
dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, gobli'ns, and 
friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley: sometimes glit- 
tering from among willows, which fringed its borders; some- 
times disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; 
and sometimes rambling out into full view, and* mak- 
ing an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. 
This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of 
the Eed Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills 
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening 
landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and 

* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spir- 
its, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, 
kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes. giantes. imps, calcars, 
conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the 
sporne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier drake, the 
puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such 
other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

under hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in 
these hospitable estates, in which everyone has a kind of 
property — at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It 
in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is 
more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and 
pleasure grounds thrown open for his recreation. He 
breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under 
the shade, as the lord of the soil; and if he has not the privi- 
lege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same 
time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue; and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pre- 
tended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence 
of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period 
of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. 
They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and proudly con- 
centrated independence of an ancient family; and I have 
heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when 
speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that 
" money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank 
Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an 
avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of 
Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakspere's commentators have supposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting 
woodland pictures in " As You Like It." It is in lonely wan- 
derings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but 
quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible 
of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination 
kindles into reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute 
and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 71 

some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees 
before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy 
banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy 
may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the 
very soul of a rural voluptuary. 

" Under the green- wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither, 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 
But winter and rough weather." 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- 
ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gate- 
way opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of 
the house, ornamented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower 
beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican; 
being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; though evi- 
dently for mere ornament, instead of defense. The front of 
the house is completely in the old style; with stone shafted 
casements, a great bow window of heavy stonework, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At 
each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feed- 
ing or reposing upon its borders; and swans were sailing 
majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venera- 
ble old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Jus- 
tice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real 
vanity of the latter: 

" Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
" Shallow. Barren, barren barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John ; 
marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspere, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 



72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

yard was locked; there was no show of servants bustling about 
the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no 
longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing 
with wary look and stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on 
some nefarious -expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the 
barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly 
abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise 
of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in 
the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the everyday entrance to 
the mansion. I wa9 courteously received by a worthy old 
housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of 
her order, snowed me the interior of the house. The greater 
part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern 
tastes and modes of living: there is a fine old oaken staircase; 
and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor- 
house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had 
in the days of Shakspere. The ceiling is arched and lofty; 
and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The 
weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned 
the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family 
portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for 
an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place 
of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the 
huge Gothic bow window, with stone shafts, which looks out 
upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass 
the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- 
tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe 
in the quarterings the three white luces by which the charac- 
ter of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice 
Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the 
" Merry Wives of Windsor," where the Justice is in a rage 
with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and 
broken mto his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offenses 
of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may 
suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puis- 
sant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation 
of Sir Thomas. 

" Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber 



STB A TFORD- ON A VON. 1 3 

matter of it ; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse 
Robert Shallow, Esq. 

" Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

" Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

" Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master par- 
son ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warraut, quittance, or 
obligation, Armigero. 

" Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hun- 
dred years. 

11 Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and all his 
ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces 
in their coat. 

" Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

" Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of 
Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
and not to hear a riot ; take your vizameuts in that. 

" Shallow. Ha 1 o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should 
end it ! " 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a, great beauty of the 
time of Charles II.: the old housekeeper shook her head as 
she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady 
had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a 
great portion of the family estate, among which was that part 
of the park where Shakspere and his comrades had killed the 
deer. The lands thus lost have not been entirely regained 
by the family, even at the present day. It is but justice to 
this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine 
hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir 
Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the 
latter part of Shakspere's lifetime. I at first thought that it 
was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper 
assured me that it was his son; the only likeness extant of the 
former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the 
neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively 
idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is 
dressed in ruff and doublet; white shoes with roses in them; 
and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a 
cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side 
of the picture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the chil- 
dren have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group; a hawk 
is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the chil- 
dren holds a bow; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 



14 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accom- 
plished gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former 
days was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his rural 
domains; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted 
Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant 
Shakspere was brought before him. As I like to deck out 
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the 
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded 
by his bodyguard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving- 
men with their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought 
in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, 
huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids 
peeping from the half-opened doors; while from the gallery 
the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, 
eying the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in 
womanhood." Who would have thought that this poor var- 
let, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country 
squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 
delight of princes; the theme of all tongues and ages; the 
dictator to the human mind; and was to confer immortality 
on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a 
last year's pippen of his own grafhng, with a dish of carra- 
ways"; but I had already spent so much of the day in my 

* Bishop Earle. speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes : 
" His housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and 
serving men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their 
throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true bur- 
den of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the 
sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his 
description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks : " He kept all sorts of hounds 
that run, buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds 
both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed 
with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and 
terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest 
terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 



STB A TFORD- ON A VON 75 

rambling, that I was obliged to give up any further investiga- 
tions. When about to take my leave, I was gratified by the 
civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would 
take some refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality, 
which I grieve to say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in 
modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the 
present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ances- 
tors; for Shakspere, even in his caricature, makes Justice 
Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing 
instances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night. . . I will not 
excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; 
there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused . . . Some 
pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell * William Cook.' " 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them as it were be- 
fore my eyes; and as the door of the dining room opened, I 
almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his favorite ditty: 

" Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrovetide! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic 
of his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things 
and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn 
this " working-day world " into a perfect fairyland. He is 
indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the 
senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the 
wizard influence of Shakspere I had been walking all day in a 
complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through 
the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; 
with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet 
which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Eosa- 
lind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; 
and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat 
Jack Falstaff, and his contemporaries, from the august Jus- 



76 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

tice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender, and the 
sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the 
bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno- 
cent illusions; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleas- 
ures in my checkered path; and beguiled my spirit in many a 
lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
social life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed 
vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and 
escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? 
What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have 
been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand 
in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an overwrought 
sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and 
prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled 
with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, 
no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in 
peace and honor, among his kindred and his early friends. 
And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn 
him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the 
bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it cov- 
ered with renown; that his name should become the boast 
and glory of his native place; that his ashes should be reli- 
giously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its 
lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful con- 
templation, should one day become the beacon, towering 
amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of 
every nation to his tomb! 



CHRISTMAS. ?7 



CHEISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of 
his good, gray old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing 
I cannot have more of him. — Hue and Cry After Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall, 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbours were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 

"When this old cap was new. 

— Old Song. 

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delight- 
ful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holi- 
day customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of 
life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and 
believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they 
bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in 
which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world 
was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I 
regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, 
being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated 
by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels 
of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, 
and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the 
rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so 
many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the 
Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully repaying their 
support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as 
it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- 
ment. The services of the Church about this season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring: they dwell on the beautiful 
story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that 
accompanied its announcement: they gradually increase in 



IS TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they 
break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good will to men. I do not know a grander effect of 
music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and 
the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cath- 
edral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant 
harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, and has been made 
the season for gathering together of family connections, and 
drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the 
cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually 
operating to cast loose, of calling back the children of a 
family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, 
that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young 
and loving again among the endearing mementos of child- 
hood. 

There is something in the very season of the year, that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere 
beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate 
themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad 
and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the 
stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft volup- 
tuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with 
its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep deli- 
cious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute 
but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sen- 
sation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies de- 
spoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The 
dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy 
days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wan- 
derings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and 
make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social 
circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm 
of each other's society, and are brought more closely together 
by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth 
unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of 
loving-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; 



CHRISTMAS. ?9 

and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element 
of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on enter- 
ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening 
fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sun- 
shine through the room, and lights up each countenance into 
a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospi- 
tality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is 
the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the 
winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes 
through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the 
casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more 
grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with 
which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the 
scene of domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the 
stillness of country life; and they were in former days par- 
ticularly observant of the religious and social rights of Christ- 
mas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some 
antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque 
pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fel- 
lowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed 
to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It 
brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all 
ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The 
old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp 
and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned 
under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage 
welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay 
and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the 
lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join 
the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the 
long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas 
tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It 
has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited re- 
liefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down so- 
ciety into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less 
characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials 
of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and 
dispute among commentators. The} r nourished in times full 
of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but 
heartily and vigorously: times wild and picturesque, which 
have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the 
drama with its most attractive variety of characters and man- 
ners. The world has become more worldly. There is more 
of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded 
into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many 
of those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly 
through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has ac- 
quired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost 
many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, 
its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of 
golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly 
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy 
saloons and gay drawing rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- 
land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely 
aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English 
bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social 
board that is again to unite friends and kindred — the presents 
of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of re- 
gard and quickeners of kind feelings — the evergreens dis- 
tributed about the houses and churches, emblems of peace 
and gladness — all these have the most pleasing effect in pro- 
ducing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympa- 
thies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their 
minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night 
with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awak- 
ened by them in that still and solemn hour " when deep sleep 
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and 
connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing 
peace and good will to mankind. How delightfully the im- 
agination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, 
turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing of 
the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the 
country, " telling the night watches to hia feathery dames/' 



CHRISTMAS. . 81 

was thought by the common people to announce the approach 
of the sacred festival: 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, 
what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season 
of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling not merely 
the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of 
charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green 
to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea 
of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, 
reanimates the drooping spirit — as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary 
pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for me 
no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its 
doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely 
happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every 
countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent 
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a 
supreme and ever shining benevolence. He who can turn 
churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow 
beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneli- 
ness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of 
strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants 
the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm 
of a merry Christmas. 



82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 

Omne bend 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi 

Venit hora 

Absque mort 
Libros deponendi. 

— Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper, I have made some general observa- 
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and I am 
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas 
passed in the country; in perusing which, I would most 
courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of 
wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit, which is 
tolerant of folly and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for 
a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day pre- 
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and 
out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the 
Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, 
and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling 
their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from dis- 
tant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy- 
cheeked schoolboys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of 
the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in 
the children of this country. They were returning home for 
the holidays, in high glee, and promising themselves a world 
of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of 
pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they 
were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from 
the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of the anticipations of the meeting of the family 
and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joys 
they were to give their little sisters, by the presents with 
which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which 
they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was 
with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to 
their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the 
days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! 
and then such leaps as he would take — there was not a hedge 
in the whole country that he could not clear, 



THE STAGE-COACH. 83 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but 
notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of 
the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a 
large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of 
his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and 
business; but he is particularly so during this season, having 
so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great 
interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
unacceptable to my untraveled readers, to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this numerous and im- 
portant class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a 
language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent 
throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage- 
coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any 
other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into 
every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions 
by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still 
further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is 
buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. 
He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of 
colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and 
tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer time a large bou- 
quet of flowers in his buttonhole, the present, most probably, 
of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of 
some bright color, striped, and his smallclothes extend far 
below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach 
about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has 
a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, not- 
withstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there 
is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, 
which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys 
great consequence and consideration along the road; has fre- 
quent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon 
him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to 
have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country 
lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be 
changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, 



84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler, his duty 
being merely to drive them from one stage to another. When 
off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great- 
coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most 
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an 
admiring throng of hostlers, stable boys, shoeblacks, and those 
nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run 
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of 
battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of 
the taproom. These all look up to him. as to an oracle; treas- 
ure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and 
other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavor to imitate 
his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his 
back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks 
slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the 
entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to 
secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly 
take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean- 
time, the coachman has a world of small commissions to exe- 
cute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes 
jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public 
house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly 
import, hands to some half blushing, half laughing house- 
maid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. 
As the coach rattles through the village, everyone runs to the 
window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country 
faces, and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assem- 
bled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their 
stations there for the important purpose of seeing com- 
pany pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, 
to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much 
speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, 
pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil 
suspend their ringing hammers, and surfer the iron to grow 
cool; and the sooty specter in brown paper cap, laboring at 
the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits 
the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he 



THE STAGE-COACH. 85 

glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of 
the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if 
everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, 
and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in 
the villages; the grocers', butchers', and the fruiterers' shops 
were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring 
briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy 
branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to 
appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old 
writer's account of Christmas preparations: "Now capons 
and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of peo- 
ple will not be fed with little. Now plums and spice, sugar 
and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never 
must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to 
get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country 
maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she 
forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the con- 
tention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook 
do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
from my little traveling companions. They had been look- 
ing out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recog- 
nizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and 
now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John! and 
there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam! " cried the happy little 
rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant 
in livery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by a super- 
annuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little 
old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who 
stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the 
bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fel- 
lows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the 
pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount him 
at once, and it was with some difficulty that John arranged 
that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride 
first. 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands; both talking at once, and overpowering him with ques- 
tions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after 
them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure 
or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded of those 
days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, 
and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We 
stopped a few minutes afterward, to water the horses; and on 
resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of 
a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a 
lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little 
comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping 
along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, 
in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of 
trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
inn, I saw, on one side, the light of a rousing kitchen fire 
beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the 
hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and 
broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It 
was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin 
vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a 
Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were 
suspended from the ceiling; a smokejack made its ceaseless 
clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one 
corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of 
the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty 
viands, upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale 
seemed mounting guard. Travelers of inferior order were 
preparing to attack this stout repast, whilst others sat smok- 
ing and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken 
settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
ward and forward, under the direction of a fresh bustling 
landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange 
a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Eobin's 
humble idea of the comforts of midwinter: 

" Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale and now a toast, 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 87 

Tobacco and a good coal fire, 

Are things this season doth require." * 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove np 
to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the 
light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which 
I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, 
when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was 
Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young fellow, 
with whom I had once traveled on the Continent. Our meet- 
ing was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fel- 
low-traveler always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To dis- 
cuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossi- 
ble; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was 
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to which 
he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few 
miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christ- 
mas dinner at an inn/' said he, " and I can assure you of a 
hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." 
His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation 
I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had 
made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, 
therefore, at once with his invitation; the chaise drove up to 
the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the 
family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

— Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our 
chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the postboy 
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses 

* " Poor Robin's Almanack," 1694. 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my 
companion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time for 
some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old 
school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old 
English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you 
will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity — the old Eng- 
lish country gentlemen; for our men of fortune spend so 
much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much 
into the country, that the strong, rich peculiarities of ancient 
rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from 
early years, took honest Peacham * for his text-book, instead 
of Chesterfield; he determined in his own mind that there was 
no condition more truly honorable and enviable than that of 
a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore 
passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous 
advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday 
observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and 
modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favor- 
ite range of reading is among the authors who nourished at 
least two centuries since; who, he insists, wrote and thought 
more like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He 
even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few cen- 
turies earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar 
manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from the 
main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without 
any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all 
blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the 
bent of his own humor without molestation. Being repre- 
sentative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great 
part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked 
up to, and in general is known simply by the appellation of 
1 The Squire/ a title which has been accorded to the head of 
the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you 
these hints about my worthy old father to prepare you for 
any little eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and 
at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, 
magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top 
into nourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that 
supported the gate was surmounted by the family crest. Close 

*Peacham's " Complete Gentleman," 1622. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 89 

adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir 
trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed gar- 
risoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. 
As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of 
a little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peep- 
ing from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came cour- 
tesying forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing 
her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servant's hall; they could 
not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and 
story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless 
sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a light covering of 
snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams 
caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a 
thin, transparent vapor stealing up from the low grounds, 
and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked round him with transport. " How 
often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue on return- 
ing home on school vacations! How often have I played 
under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree of filial rever- 
ence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us 
in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting 
our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. 
He used to direct and superintend our games with the strict- 
ness that some parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the old English games 
according to their original form, and consulted, old books for 
precedent and authority for every i merrie disport '; yet, I 
assure you, there never was pedantry so delightful. It was 
the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children 
feel that home was the happiest place in the world, and I 
value this delicious home feeling as one of the choicest gifts 
a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 



00 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the por- 
ter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding open- 
mouthed across the lawn. 

" ' The little dogs and all, 
Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! ' " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. 
One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy, stone- 
shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from 
among the foliage of which the small, diamond-shaped panes 
of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house 
was in the French taste of Charles II.'s time, having been 
repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his an- 
cestors who returned with that monarch at the Eestoration. 
The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal 
manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised 
terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, 
a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, 

1 was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete 
finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in 
gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and 
noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imita- 
tion of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with 
modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical 
government — it smacked of the leveling system. I could not 
help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the 
old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured 
me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which he 
had ever heard his father meddle with politics; and he be- 
lieved he had got this notion from a member of Parliament 
who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad 
of any argument to defend his clipped yew trees and formal 
terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modern 
landscape gardeners. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 91 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the 
building. This, Bracebriclge said, must proceed from the ser- 
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and 
even encouraged, by the squire, throughout the twelve days of 
Christmas, provided everything was done conformably to 
ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, 
bob-apple, and snap-dragon; the Yule clog and Christmas 
candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white 
berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty 
housemaids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On 
our arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive 
us, accompanied by his two other sons — one a young officer 
in the army, home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, 
just from the university. The squire was a fine, healthy- 
looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round 
an open, florid countenance, in which a physiognomist, with 
the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to 
change our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large, old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous family 
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old 
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 
spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, 
and bright-eyed boarding school hoydens. They were vari- 
ously occupied — some at a round game of cards, others con- 
versing round the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a 
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of 
a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, 
and tattered dolls about the floor showed traces of a troop 
of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy 
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens, at Christ- 
mas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under 
it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked, the privilege ceases. 



92 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy, pro- 
jecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in 
armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall 
hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous 
pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serv- 
ing as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and 
in the corners of the apartment were fowling pieces, fishing 
rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of 
the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some ar- 
ticles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken 
floor had been carpeted; so that the whole presented an odd 
mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of 
which was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and send- 
ing forth a vast volume of light and heat; this I understood 
was the yule clog, which the squire was particular in having 
brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to 
ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ances- 

* The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in 
the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it 
lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- 
times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages, the 
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yule 
clog was to burn all night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill 
luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : 
" Come bring with a noise, 
My merrie, merrie boys, 
The Christmas Log to the firing ; 
Whilst my good dame she 
Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring." 

The yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north ; and there are several superstitions con- 
nected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the 
house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill 
omen. The brand remaining from the yule clog is carefully put away 
to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 93 

tors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beam- 
ing warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog 
that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position 
and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag 
his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, 
confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation 
from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be de- 
scribed, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once 
at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the com- 
fortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier before I found my- 
self as much at home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family 
portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accus- 
tomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 
wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished 
buffet among the family plate. The table was abundantly 
spread with substantial fare; but the squire made his sup- 
per of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk 
with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christ- 
mas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, mince pie, in the 
retinue of the feast; and, finding him to be perfectly ortho- 
dox, and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I 
greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet 
an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master 
Simon. He was a tight, brisk little man, with the air of an 
arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a 
parrot, his face slightly pitted with the smallpox, with a dry, 
perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He 
had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery 
and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. He 
was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly 
jokes and inuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite mer- 
riment by harping upon old themes, which, unfortunately, 
my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to 
enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to 
keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her 
mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the 



94 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

younger part of the company, who laughed at everything he 
said or did and at every turn of his countenance. I could not 
wonder at it, for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
ments' in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; 
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a 
burnt cork and pocket handkerchief; and cut an orange into 
such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready 
to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
was an old bachelor of a small independent income, which, 
by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He 
revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet 
in its orbit, sometimes visiting one branch and sometimes 
another quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in England. He 
had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying the pres- 
ent moment, and his frequent change of scene and company 
prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits 
with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He 
was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the gene- 
alogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of 
Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old 
folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated 
spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather 
a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the 
children; so that there was not a more popular being in the 
sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of 
late years he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to 
whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly 
delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, 
and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. 
We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent; 
for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and 
other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Mas- 
ter Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He 
bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of 
the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that 
it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split 
reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty: 

•' Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbours together ; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make such a cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 95 

The supper had disposed everyone to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance com- 
forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He 
was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and 
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be 
found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old 
gentleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in Hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one; 
some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself 
figured down several couple with a partner with whom he 
affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a 
century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connect- 
ing link between the old times and the new, and to be 
withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, 
evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavor- 
ing to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other 
graces of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted 
himself with a little romping girl from boarding school, who, 
by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and 
defeated all his sober attempts at elegance. Such are the ill- 
sorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
prone! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
knaveries with impunity; he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins; yet, like all 
madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the 
young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful, blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had 
noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a 
little kindness growing up between them; and, indeed, the 
young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. 
He was tall, slender, and handsome; and, like most young 
British officers of late years, had picked up various small ac- 
complishments on the Continent — he could talk French and 
Italian, draw landscapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely; 
but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo. What girl 
of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist 
such a mirror of chivalry and perfection? 

The moment the dance was over he caught up a guitar, 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude 



96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 
little French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, 
exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but good 
old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his 
eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into 
another strain, and with a charming air of gallantry gave 
Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia": 

" Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

"No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is uone to affright thee : 

11 Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

" Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me : 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee." 

The song might or might not have been intended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called; 
she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such applica- 
tion, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast 
upon the floor; her face was suffused, it is true, with a beau- 
tiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but 
all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance; 
indeed, so great was her indifference, that she was amusing 
herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house 
flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay 
lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night, with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 
the hall on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of th,e 
yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow; and had it not been 
the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have 
been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight and 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 97 

peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about 
the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the 
days of the giants. The room was paneled, with cornices 
of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces 
were strangely intermingled, and a row of black-looking por- 
traits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was 
of rich, though faded, damask, with a lofty tester, and stood 
in a niche opposite a bow window. I had scarcely got into 
bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air 
just below the window. I listened, and found it proceeded 
from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some 
neighboring village. They went round the house, playing 
under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them 
more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part 
of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apart- 
ment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 
aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I 
listened and listened — they became more and more tender 
and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk 
upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night flie hence away, 
And give the honour to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on a sudden ?— come and see 
The cause, why things thus fragrant be. 

— Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and noth- 
ing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of 
their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
sound of little feet pattering outside of the door and a whis- 
pering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted 
forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was: 

" Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning." 



9 8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups 
that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two 
girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. 
They were going the rounds of the house, singing at every 
chamber door, but my sudden appearance frightened them 
into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment play- 
ing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing 
a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one 
impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of 
the gallery I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine 
stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, 
with noble clumps of trees and herds of deer. At a distance 
•was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys 
hanging over it; and a church, with its dark spire in strong 
relief against the clear cold sky. The house was surrounded 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer, but the 
morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the pre- 
ceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and cov- 
ered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystal- 
lizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling 
effect among the glittering foliage. A robin perched upon 
the top of a mountain ash, that hung its clusters of red berries 
just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, 
and piping a few querulous notes; and a peacock was dis- 
pla3dng all the glories of his train, and strutting with the 
pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace-walk 
below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer 
books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses; and 
I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself 
with great gravity and decorum. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 99 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his fav- 
orite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to a church 
melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing; but 
I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart and 
sudden sally of grateful feeling with which the worthy squire 
delivered one stanza, his eye glistening, and his voice ram- 
bling out of all the bounds of time and tune: 

4 * Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 
Spic'd to the brink : 

"Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bush ell sowne, 
Twice ten for one." 

I afterward understood that early morning service was 
read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, 
either by Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It 
was once almost universally the case at the seats of the no- 
bility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted 
that the custom is falling into neglect; for the dullest observer 
must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in 
those households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful 
form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key- 
note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to 
harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamenta- 
tions over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak 
nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness; and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, 
yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called 
by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by a num- 
ber of gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about the 
establishment; from the frisky spaniel to the steady old stag- 
hound — the last of which was of a race that had been in the 



100 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog. 
whistle which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the 
midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon 
a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but 
feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, 
heavily molded balustrades, and clipped yew trees carried 
with them an air of proud aristocracy. 

There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about 
the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I 
termed a flock of them that were basking under a sunny wall, 
when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master 
Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and 
approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. 
" In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, 
" we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd 
of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of 
rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird " both 
understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently 
set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may 
the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the 
leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in 
corners till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his father, 
who was extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly be- 
cause they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at 
the stately banquets of the olden time, and partly because 
they had a pomp and magnificence about them highly be- 
coming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed 
to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock 
perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 
something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal 
spirits of the little man; and I confess I had been somewhat 
surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly 
were nb't in the range m every-day reading* I mentioned this 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 101 

last circumstance to Frank Braeebridge, who told me with 
a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was con- 
fined to some half a dozen old authors which the squire had 
put into his hands, and which he read over and over when- 
ever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on a rainy day 
or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's " Book 
of Husbandry," Markham's " Country Contentments," " The 
Tretyse of Hunting" (by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight), 
Isaac Walton's " Angler," and two or three more such ancient 
worthies of the pen were his standard authorities; and, like 
all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them 
with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. 
As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in 
the squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular 
among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical ap- 
plication of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to 
be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the 
grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 
While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the 
village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little par- 
ticular in having his household at church on a Christmas 
morning, considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and 
rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed: 

" At Christmas be merry, and thanJcful witlial, 
And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and estab- 
lished a musical club for their improvement; he has also 
sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds accord- 
ing to the directions of Jarvaise Markham, in his ' Country 
Contentments '; for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, 
solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud ringing mouths,' 
among the country bumpkins; and for ' sweet mouths ' he 
has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in 
the neighborhood; though these last, he affirms, are the most 
difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being ex- 
ceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low 
snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The 
front of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree, that had 
been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of 
which, apertures -had been formed to admit light into the 
small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the 
parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such 
as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich 
patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little, meager, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that 
was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his head 
seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in 
its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pock- 
ets that would have held the church Bible and prayer book: 
and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted 
in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He 
was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read 
a work printed in the Roman character. The editions of 
Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was 
indefatigable in his researches after such old English writers 
as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In 
deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had 
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday 
customs of former times; and had been as zealous in the in- 
quiry, as if he had been a boon companion; but it was merely 
with that plodding spirit with which men of adust tempera- 
ment follow up any track of study, merely because it is de- 
nominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, 
whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the 
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these 
old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been 
reflected into his countenance; which, if the face be indeed 
an index of the mind, might be compared to a title page of 
black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuk- 
ing the gray-headed sexton for having used the mistletoe 
among the greens with which the church was decorated. It 
was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 103 

used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it 
might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of 
halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of 
the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred pur- 
poses. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sex- 
ton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble 
trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter 
upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable, but simple; on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Braeebridges, 
and just beside the altar, was a tomb of ancient workman- 
ship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his 
legs crossed, a sign of his having been a Crusader. I was 
told it was one of the family who had signalized himself in the 
Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fire- 
place in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of 
the old school, and a man of old family connections. I ob- 
served, too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer- 
book with something of a flourish, possibly to show off an 
enormous seal ring which enriched one of his fingers, and 
which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently 
most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping 
his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with 
much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, 
among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, 
a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played 
on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; 
and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and labor- 
ing at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a 
round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two 
or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint: 
but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, 
like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as 
several had to sing from the same book, there were cluster- 
ings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs 
we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 



104 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the in- 
strumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making 
up for lost time by traveling over a passage with prodigious 
celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox hunter, 
to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem 
that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and 
on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there 
was a blunder at the very outset — the musicians became flur- 
ried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely 
and irregularly, until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now 
let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for 
parting company: all became discord and confusion; each 
shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as 
soon as he could; excepting one old chorister, in a pair of 
horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; 
who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up 
in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his 
head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of 
at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it, 
not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; support- 
ing the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the 
Church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus 
of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, 
and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made 
copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the 
necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point 
which no one present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon 
found that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to 
contend with; having, in the course of his researches on the 
subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sec- 
tarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans 
made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the Church 
and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by procla- 
mation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with 
times past, and knew but little of the present. 

*From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 
24, 1352 : " The House spent much time this day about the business of 
the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were pre- 
sented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded 
upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in honour 
of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1. Rev. i. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 105 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as 
the gazettes of the day; while the era of the Revolution was 
mere modern history.. He forgot that nearly two centuries 
had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince pie 
throughout the land; when plum porridge was denounced as 
"mere popery/' and roast beef as anti-christian; and that 
Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the 
merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled 
into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; he had a stub- 
born conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten 
champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas 
festivity; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most 
solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional cus- 
toms of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joy- 
ful anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects; for on leaving the church, the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of 
spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks 
gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands; and the children ran about crying, "Ule! ule! " and 
repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down from days of 
yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he 
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every 
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to 
the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the 
weather; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, 
which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the 
worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas 
virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward, his heart seemed overflowing with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 

10. Psalms, cxviii. 24 Lev. xxiii. 7, 11. Mark xv. 8. Psalms, Ixxxiv. 
10 ; in which Christmas is called Antichrist's masse, and those Masse- 
mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of which Par- 
liament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas 
day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day 
which was commonly called Christmas day." 
*"Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



106 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds 
of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears; the 
squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an 
air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of 
itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding 
the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey 
had acquired sufficient power to melt away the thin cover- 
ing of snow from every southern declivity, and bring out the 
living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- 
winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the 
dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every 
sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its 
silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the 
dripping grass; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute 
to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
There was something truly cheering in this triumph of 
warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it 
was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospi- 
tality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfish- 
ness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with 
pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the 
chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses and low thatched 
cottages. "I love," said he, "to see this day well kept by 
rich and poor; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, 
at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you 
go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to 
you; and I am almost disposed to join with poor Eobin, in his 
malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival: 

" ' Those who at Christmas do repine, 
And would fain hence despatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch him.' " 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the 
higher; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses were 
thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered with 
brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the 
carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were 
alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old games 

*" An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e., on 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 107 

and local customs/' said he, " had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times 
merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one 
of our old poets, 

" ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, . 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their 
interests are separate. They have become too knowing, and 
begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse politicians, and 
talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good 
humor in these hard times, would be for the nobility and 
gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among 
the country people, and set the merry old English games 
going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public 
discontent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before he had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts 
in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth circumstances oc- 
curred; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the 
country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in 
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then he had contented himself with inviting the decent 
part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the Hall on 
Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and 
ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their 
own dwellings. 

We had not been long home, when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without 
coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their 

Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbours enter 
his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black 
jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good 
Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by 
daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden (*. e. t the cook) 
by the arms and run her round the market place till she is shamed of 
her laziness." — Bound about our Sea- Coal Five, 



108 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were 
seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number 
of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall 
door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads 
performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreat- 
ing, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to 
the music; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, 
the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round 
the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with 
many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Eomans held possession of the 
island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of 
the sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, 
"nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of 
it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival; 
though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by 
rough cudgel play, and broken heads, in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- 
tained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It 
is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as 
they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the 
squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace, 
and giving each other the wink; but the moment they caught 
my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly de- 
mure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more 
at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had 
made him well known throughout the neighborhood. He 
was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage; gossiped with 
the farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters; 
and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humble bee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affec- 
tionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited 
by the bounty and familiarity of those above them; the warm 
glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word 
or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens 
the heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When 
the squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 109 

was much joking and laughter, particularly between Master 
Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who 
appeared to be the wit of the village; for I observed all his 
companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and 
burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well under- 
stand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment: 
as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a window 
that commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musi- 
cians, with pandean pipes and tamborine; a pretty coquettish 
housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while 
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst 
of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the win- 
dow, and coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 



110 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papers op the late diedkich 
knickerbocker.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

— Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of 
the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 
Tappaan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, 
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they 
crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which 
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally 
and properly knowm by the name of Tarry Town. This name 
was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good house- 
wives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity 
of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it ma}', I do not vouch for the fact, but 
merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authen- 
tic. Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, 
there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, 
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A 
small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to 
lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or 
tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever 
breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- 
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades 
one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time 
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, 
and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If 
ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the 
world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the rem- 
nant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than 
this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- 
acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the origi- 
nal Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. HI 

by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called 
the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring coun- 
try. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the 
land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that 
the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the 
early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, 
the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there 
before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hud- 
son. Certain it is, that the place still continues under the 
sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the 
minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; 
are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange 
sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole 
neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and 
twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener 
across the valley than in any other part of the country, and 
the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the 
favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 
of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without 
a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 
trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon ball, 
in some nameless battle during the Eevolutionary War, and 
who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along 
in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His 
haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to 
the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church 
that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most au- 
thentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in col- 
lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
specter, allege that the body of the trooper having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene 
of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing 
speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like 
a midnight blast, is owing ! o his being belated, and in a hurry 
to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows; and the specter is known at all the coun- 
try firesides, by the name of The Headless Horseman of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



112 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but it is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there 
for a time. However wideawake they may have been before 
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, 
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it 
is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of 
migration and improvement, which is making such incessant 
changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, 
which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and 
bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their 
mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not 
still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in 
its sheltered bosom. 

In this byplace of nature there abode, in a remote period of 
American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a 
native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with 
pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country school- 
masters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his 
person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out 
of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his 
whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was 
small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock 
perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind 
blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a 
windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, 
one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine de- 
scending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 113 

rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leaves of copybooks. It was most in- 
geniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the 
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shut- 
ters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he 
would find some embarrassment in getting out: — an idea most 
probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from 
the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather 
lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, 
with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree 
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of 
his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard 
of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; inter- 
rupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, 
in the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the 
appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer 
along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a 
conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, 
" spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's 
scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of 
their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity; taking the burthen off the 
backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your 
mere puny stripling that winced at the least flourish of the 
rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice 
were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, 
tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who 
sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents"; 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that " he 
would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he 
had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted 
for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behoved him to 
keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising 
from his school was small, and would have been scarcely suffi- 
cient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge 



114 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- 
conda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the 
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively, a week at a time, thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling 
a grievous burthen, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of 
their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took 
the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut 
wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant 
dignity and absolute sway, with which he lorded it in his 
little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and 
ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by 
petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the 
lion bold, which whilome so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle 
with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was 
a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his 
station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen 
singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away 
the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded 
far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are 
peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which 
may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side 
of the mill pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said 
to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. 
Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which 
is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, 
by all who understood nothing of the labor of head work, to 
have a wonderful easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered 
a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior 
taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and ; 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 115 

indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea- 
table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a 
silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
would figure among them in the churchyard, between services 
on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amuse- 
ment all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering with 
a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill 
pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheep- 
ishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house 
to house; so that his appearance was always greeted with 
satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a 
man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite 
through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's " His- 
tory of New England Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he 
most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, border- 
ing the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering 
dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his 
eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream 
and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to 
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, 
fluttered his excited imagination; the moan of the whip-poor- 
will * from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree toad, that 
harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl; or 
the sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in 
the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of un- 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It re- 
ceives its name from its notes which are thought to resemble those words. 



116 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

common brightness would stream across his path; and if, by- 
chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blun- 
dering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give 
up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown 
thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; — 
and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 
doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his 
nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating 
from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts, and 
goblins, and haunted fields and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of the Headless 
Horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by his 
anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and porten- 
tous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the 
earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woe- 
fully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and 
with -the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn 
round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a 
ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of 
course, no specter dared to show its face, it was -dearly pur- 
chased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homeward. 
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the 
dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful 
look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across 
the waste fields from some distant window! How often was 
he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which like a 
sheeted specter beset his very path! How often did he shrink 
with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty 
crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, 
lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close be- 
hind him! — and how often was he thrown into complete dis- 
may by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the 
idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. H? 

toms of the mind, that walk in darkness: and though he had 
seen many specters in his time, and been more than once beset 
by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet 
daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his 
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes 
more perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, goblins, and the 
whole race of witches put together; and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub- 
stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh 
eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy- 
cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, 
not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She 
was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even 
in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern 
fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the 
ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grand- 
mother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting 
stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short 
petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the coun- 
try round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; 
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel 
soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had 
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel 
was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted 
farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his 
thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within 
these, everything was snug, happy, and well conditioned. He 
was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of 'it; and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than th^ style in 
which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of 
the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of 
which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in 
a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away 
through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along 
among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse 
was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the 



118 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within 
it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed 
twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with 
one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and 
others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, 
were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their 
pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of suck- 
ing pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy 
geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it like ill- 
tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. 
Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern 
of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman; clapping his 
burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then 
generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and chil- 
dren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devour- 
ing mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig run- 
ning about, with a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its 
mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable 
pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were 
swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in 
dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future 
sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey, 
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its 
wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and 
even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in 
a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter 
which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields 
of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the 
orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded 
the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the 
damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagina- 
tion expanded with the idea, how they might be readily 
turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. H9 

of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his 
busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him 
the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he 
beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her 
heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee — or the Lord 
knows where! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with 
high-ridged, but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed 
down from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves 
forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up 
in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various 
utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighbor- 
ing river. Benches were built along the sides for summer 
use; and a great spinning wheel at one end, and a churn at 
the other, showed the various uses to which this important 
porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering 
Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center of the 
mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of 
resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in 
another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey, just from the loom; ears 
of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung 
in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red 
peppers; and a door left ajar, gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany 
tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying 
shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus 
tops; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the mantel- 
piece; strings of various colored birds' eggs were suspended 
above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the 
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed 
immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter 
of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to con- 
tend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of 



120 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle-keep where 
the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as 
easily as a man would carve his way to the center of a Christ- 
mas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of 
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the 
heart of a country coquette beset with a labyrinth of whims 
and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties 
and impediments, and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic ad- 
mirers, who beset every portal to her heart; keeping a watch- 
ful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the 
common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade of the name of Abraham, or according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rung with his feats of strength and har- 
dihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with 
short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant coun- 
tenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From 
his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had re- 
ceived the nickname of Brom Boxes, by which he was univer- 
sally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill 
in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. 
He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and with the 
ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic 
life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one 
side, and giving his decision with an air and tone that ad- 
mitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for 
either a fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill-will in 
his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness there 
was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had 
three or four boon companions of his own stamp, who re- 
garded him as their model, and at the head of whom he 
scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merri- 
ment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished 
by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and 
when the folks at a country gathering descried this well- 
known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of 
hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his 
crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at 
midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
sacks, and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would 
listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 121 

and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his 
gang! " The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of 
awe, admiration, and good will; and when any madcap prank 
or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their 
heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the 
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whis- 
pered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Cer- 
tain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to re- 
tire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; 
insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's 
paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was 
courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking," within, all other 
suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other 
quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man than 
he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man 
would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of 
pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and 
spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; though he 
bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the 
slightest pressure, yet the moment it was away — jerk! — he was 
as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival, would have 
been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuat- 
ing manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, 
he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had 
anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of 
parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of 
lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable 
man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every- 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to at- 
tend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry; for, as she 
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must 
be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, 
while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her 
spinning wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 



122 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a 
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on 
the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would 
carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring 
under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that 
hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or 
door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and 
may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great 
triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof 
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man* 
must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He 
that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to 
some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was 
not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the 
moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of 
the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer seen 
tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough* chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled 
their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those 
most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore 
— by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the 
superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; 
he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would " double 
the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf "; and he was 
too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something 
extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left 
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical 
jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim- 
sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. 
They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his 
singing school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the 
schoolhouse at night, in spite of his formidable fastenings of 
withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; 
so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 123 

in the country held their meetings there. But what was still 
more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him 
into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel 
dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, 
and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in 
psalmody. 

In this way, matters went on for some time, without pro- 
ducing any material effect on the relative situations of the 
contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, 
in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence 
he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. 
In his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; 
the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, 
a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him 
might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited 
weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such as 
half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and 
whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Appar- 
ently there had been some appalling act of justice recently in- 
flicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, 
or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the 
master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout- 
the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appear- 
ance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round- 
crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and 
mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, 
which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came 
clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod 
to attend a merrymaking, or " quilting frolic," to be held 
that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered 
his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine 
language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies 
of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scamper- 
ing away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of 
his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- 
out stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart 
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, 
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside, with- 
out being put away on the shelves; inkstands were over- 
turned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was 



124 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

turned loose an hour before the usual time; bursting forth 
like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the 
green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and in- 
deed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit 
of broken looking glass, that hung up in the schoolhouse. 
That he might make his appearance before his mistress in 
the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the far- 
mer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutch- 
man, of the name of Hans Van Eipper, and thus gallantly 
mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adven- 
tures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic 
story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my 
hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but 
his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck 
and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were 
tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, 
and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of 
a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle 
in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gun- 
powder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his mas- 
ter's, the choleric Yan Ripper, who was a furious rider, and 
had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the 
animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was 
more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in 
the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 
pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, 
like a scepter, and as the horse jogged on, the motion of his 
arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip 
of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appear- 
ance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the 
gate of Hans Van Eipper, and it was altogether such an appa- 
rition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 125 

forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; 
the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of 
beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
from the very profusion and variety around them. There 
was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the twittering 
blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden winged 
woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, 
and splendid plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt 
wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of 
feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay 
light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chat- 
tering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to 
be on good terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round 
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat 
fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld 
them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- 
jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
"sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the 
Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here 



126 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated 
in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The hori- 
zon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid- 
heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the 
precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. 
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down 
with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and 
as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it 
seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride 
and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare 
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue 
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, 
long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and 
pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- 
ing where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, 
gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons, in short 
square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, 
and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it 
being esteemed throughout the country, as a potent nourisher 
and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a 
creature like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which 
no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted 
for preferring vicious animals given to all kinds of tricks 
which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held 
a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 
state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Xot those of the bevy 
of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; 
but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea table, 
in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters 
of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known 
only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 127 

doughty doughnut, the tender oly-koek, and the crisp and 
crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes 
and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 
there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies, be- 
sides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable 
dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and 
quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; 
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- 
piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the 
motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst 
— Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss 
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with 
my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a 
hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back 
upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans 
Van Eipper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him 
comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with 
a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly 
as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap 
on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to 
" fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, 
or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old 
gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of 
the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instru- 
ment was as old and battered as himself. The greater part 
of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, accom- 
panying every movement of the bow with a motion of the 
head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his 
foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle; 
and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, ancl 



128 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus 
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before 
you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; 
who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and 
the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black 
faces at every door and window; gazing with delight at the 
scene; rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning 
rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and jovous? the lady of 
his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously 
in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely 
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smok- 
ing at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and 
drawling out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the 
scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cowboys, 
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had 
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a 
little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recol- 
lection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an 
old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a myn- 
heer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White- 
plains, being an excellent master of defense, parried a musket 
ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it 
whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of 
which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the 
hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded 
that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a 
happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appa- 
ritions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legend- 
ary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 129 

best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled 
under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population 
of most of our country places. Besides, there is no en- 
couragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have 
scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves 
in their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled 
away from the neighborhood: so that when they turn out at 
night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to 
call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear 
of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the 
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the 
very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed 
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the 
land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at 
Van TassePs, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and 
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about 
funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and 
seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre 
was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some men- 
tion was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the 
dark glen at Eaven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on 
winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the 
snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon 
the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, 
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the coun- 
try; and, it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the 
graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands 
on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from 
among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly 
forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of 
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may 
be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon this 
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might 
rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide 
woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of 
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a 



130 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, 
were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom 
about.it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful dark- 
ness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the 
Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most fre- 
quently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a 
most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged 
to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; 
when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops 
with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
adventures of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping 
Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had 
been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he offered to 
race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it 
too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just 
as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and 
vanished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a 
pipe, sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in 
kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken 
place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now. gradually broke up. The old farmers gath- 
ered together their families in their wagons, and were heard 
for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the 
distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions be- 
hind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, 
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually 
died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all 
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, accord- 
ing to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with 
the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high 
road to success. What passed at this interview I will not 
pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 131 

ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied 
forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate 
and chapf alien — oh, these women! these women! Could that 
girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was 
her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to 
secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! 
— let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one 
who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady's 
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the 
scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he 
went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and 
kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the com- 
fortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming 
of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy 
and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homeward, along 
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and 
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hom* was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan 
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could 
even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite 
shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only 
to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion 
of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a 
cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from 
some farmhouse, away among the hills — but it was like a 
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near 
him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
perhaps the gutteral twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring 
marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly 
in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. 
The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink 
deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them 
from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He 
was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of 
the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center 
of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered 
like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, 



132 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and 
fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, 
twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the 
air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortu- 
nate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was 
universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and 
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill- 
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, 
and doleful lamentations, told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whis- 
tle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast 
sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he ap- 
proached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, 
hanging in the midst of the tree; he paused, and ceased whis- 
tling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a 
place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the 
white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth 
chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but 
the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were 
swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, 
but new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough 
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, 
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape- 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the 
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of 
those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed 
who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a 
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of a schoolboy 
who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse 
half a score of kicks in the ribs and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside 
against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily 
with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 133 

it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the 
road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The school- 
master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling 
ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sud- 
denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. 
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge 
caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of 
the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something 
huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was 
now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escap- 
ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the 
wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of 
courage, he demanded in stammering accents — " Who are 
you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in 
a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once 
more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and 
shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into 
a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put 
itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound, stood at 
once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman 
of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of power- 
ful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, 
but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the 
blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright 
and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom 
Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, 
in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, 
quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, 
and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did 
the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored 
to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the 
roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There 
was something in the moody and dogged silence of this 
pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. 



134 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 

It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising 
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in 
relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a 
cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was 
headless! but his horror was still more increased, on observing 
that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, 
was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His 
terror rose to desperation; he reigned a shower of kicks and 
blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to 
give his companion the slip — but the specter started full jump 
with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; 
stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's 
flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long 
lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his 
flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 
where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the white- 
washed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got 
halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave 
way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it 
by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; 
and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder 
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he 
heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment 
the terrors of Hans Van Eipper's wrath passed across his 
mind — for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time 
for petty fears: the goblin was hard on his haunches; and 
(unskillful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain 
his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on an- 
other, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave 
him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflec- 
tion of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that 
he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 135 

glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place 
where Brom Bone's ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If 
I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." 
Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close 
behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. 
Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding 
planks; he gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a 
look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the 
goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his 
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible 
missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a 
tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, 
and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed 
by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping 
the grass at his master's gate, Ichabod did not make his 
appearance at breakfast — dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. 
The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly 
about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans 
Van Eipper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate 
of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. 
In one part of the road leading to the church, was found the 
saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply 
dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were 
traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was 
found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside 
it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Eipper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his 
worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; 
two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; 
an old pair of corduroy smallclothes; a rusty razor; a book 
of psalm tunes full of dog's ears; and a broken pitch pipe. 
As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they be- 
longed to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's " His- 
tory of Witchcraft," a New England Almanac, and a book of 
dreams and fortune telling; in which last was a sheet of fools- 



136 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

cap much scribbled and blotted, by several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith con- 
signed to the flames by Hans Van Kipper; who, from that 
time forward, determined to send his children no more to 
school; observing that he never knew any good come of this 
same reading and writing. Whatever money the school- 
master possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but 
a day or two before, he must have had about his person at 
the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and 
at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. Tlje 
stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, 
were called to mind, and when they had diligently considered 
them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the pres- 
ent case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion, 
that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. 
As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled 
his head any more about him; the school was removed to a 
different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue 
reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account 
of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the in- 
telligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had 
left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and 
Hans Van Eipper, and partly in mortification at having been 
suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his 
quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and 
studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; 
turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; 
and finally, had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. 
Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance, 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at 
the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day, that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 137 

story often told about the neighborhood round the winter 
evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of 
superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the road 
has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church 
by the border of the mill pond. The schoolhouse, being 
deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted 
by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plow- 
boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often 
fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm 
tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT, FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words 
in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the 
ancient city of the Manhattoes,* at which were present many 
of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was 
a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and- 
salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I 
strongly suspected of being poor — he made such efforts to 
be entertaining. When his story was concluded there was 
much laughter and approbation, particularly from two ©r 
three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part 
of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old 
gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave 
and rather severe face throughout; now and then folding his 
arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, 
as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your 
wary men, who never laugh but on good grounds — when they 
have reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the 
rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, 
he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the 
other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage 
motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
moral of the story, and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to 
his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, 
looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and 
lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the 
story was intended most logically to prove: 

* New York. 



138 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages 
and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it: 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troop- 
ers, is likely to have rough riding of it: 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in 
the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratio- 
cination of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pep- 
per-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. 
At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still 
he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were 
one or two points on which he had his doubts: 

" Faith, sir," said the story-teller, " as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K. 



NOTES. 

The numbers before the notes refer to the page on which the words occur. 

THE VOYAGE. 

12. Quarter railing. The " quarter" is the after part of a vessel's side. 

14. The Banks of Newfoundland. These are high submarine plateaus off 
the coast of Newfoundland, and on them is the richest fishing ground in the 
world. Dense fogs prevail in this region because of condensation of moisture 
in the air due to the contact of the warm Gulf Stream with the cold currents 
from the north. 

Smacks. Small sailing vessels used chiefly for fishing. 

15. Mersey. This is the river on which is situated the great port of 
Liverpool. 

ROSCOE. 

16. Roscoe. William Roscoe (1753-1831), an historian and general writer. 
His chief works were his "Life of Lorenzo de Medici " (1796) and "Life of 
Leo X." (1805). 

17. Medici. A great Florentine family, who for the greater part of two 
centuries and a half ruled their city. The Medici furnished two Popes and 
two queens of France, and to them Florence owes many of her glorious 
monuments of art. The family became extinct in 1743. 

18. " Daily beauty in his life." Othello, V. 1. 

21. Black letter. Ancient books printed in black-letter type are so called. 
Black letter is a pointed and heavy-faced form of Roman type, perhaps first 
copied by type-founders from the style of penmanship adopted by some 
manuscript writers not particularly skillful in the formation of curves. 

22. Pompey's pillar. A pillar erected in the third century by the prefect 
of Egypt in honor of the Emperor Diocletian. Pompey had nothing to do 
with it. 

RIP VAN WINKLE. 

29. Diedrich Knickerbocker. A quaint old Dutch litterateur, a fictitious 
character, originated by Irving and assumed by him to be the author of 
Knickerbocker's " History of New York." Besides the MS. of the History, 
Diedrich left other papers and documents at his death ready for publication. 
He is represented as a small, brisk-looking old gentleman dressed in a rusty 
black coat, a pair of velvet breeches, and a small cocked hat. For full details 
see the "Account of the Author" in the introductory pages of the "History 
of New York." 

30. Waterloo Medal. A medal given to British soldiers for the battle of 
Waterloo, 1815. 



140 NOTES. 

30. Queen Anne's farthing. There is a common belief in England that only 
three specimens of the farthing of Queen Anne are in existence, and that of 
these three two are in the possession of the Government. The third would 
consequently be of very great value. As a matter of fact, the coin is not 
particularly rare. 

Kaatskill. Catskill, a range of mountains in Eastern New York. 

Appalachian family. Referring to the Appalachian range of mountains, 
which extends 1500 miles along the eastern portion of the United States,— from 
Alabama to the Gulf of St. Lawrence,— and includes the White, Green, 
Adirondack, Catskill, and Alleghany Mountains. 

Peter Stuyvesant. The last of the Dutch governors of the colony of New 
Netherlands, now New York. As governor he tried in every way to preserve 
peace with the Indians, to encourage trade and agriculture, and to induce 
settling. 

31. Province of Great Britain. The English under the Duke of York took 
control of New Netherlands, and changed its name to New York. 

Fort Christina. A fort belonging to the Swedish settlers in Delaware. 
Curtain lecture. A private reproof given by a wife to her husband. 

32. Galligaskins, A kind of leggings, supposed to take their name from the 
Latin words caligce, Fasconum, meaning hose worn by the people of Gascony, 
France. 

33. Terrors of a woman's tongue. See " Taming of the Shrew," Act I. Sc. 2. 

" Have I not in a pitched battle heard 

Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang? 

And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, 

That gives not half so great a blow to th' ear 

As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? " 
Gallows air. With the appearance of one on the gallows and about to be 
hanged ; meek ; a "hang-dog" look. 
George the Third. King of England, began to reign 1760, died 1820. 
Junta. A select deliberative assembly. 
37. Hollands. Gin imported from Holland. 

39. Red Night-Cap. During the French Revolution the red cap was 
regarded as the symbol of liberty. Irving represents the villagers as having 
erected a liberty-pole with a red cap on its top, and flung the American flag to 
the breezes, thereby celebrating the recently- acquired independence of the 
country. 

40. Phlegm. From a Greek word meaning inflammation ; one of the humors 
with which the ancients supposed the blood to be suffused. Here the word 
simply means dullness, sluggishness, stupidity. 

Babylonish Jargon. Babylon is supposed to have stood on the spot 
where the Tower of Babel was built ; confused, unintelligible. Jargon (Fr. 
jargon), confused talk or language, gabble. 

Federal or Democrat. At the time of the formation and adoption of the 
Constitution of the United States, the members of one political party favored 
it and were called Federalists ; the members of the other opposed it and 
were called Democrats. These two parties also had opposite views concern- 
ing the foreign and domestic policy of the new nation. 



NOTES. 141 

40. Akimbo. Der. is obscure, probably relating to the Keltic tot or cam, 
crooked. Dryden has : "The kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved." 
Halliwell has : "Arms on keanboll," i. e., akimbo. To rest the hand on the 
hip with the elbow thrown forward and out. 

Tory. During the Revolution, one who opposed the war, and favored the 
claims of Great Britain, was called a tory. 

41. Stony Point. A rocky promontory on the Hudson River. A fort on its 
top was captured from the British by General Anthony Wayne in 1779, by a 
brilliant assault. 

Anthony's Nose. Fanciful name of another rocky promontory on the 
Hudson. Why it came to have this name, see Irving's "History of New 
York," Book VI. ch. iv. 

44. Frederick der Rothbart. Generally called in English Frederick Bar- 
barossa. Frederick I. (1152-90), Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, was 
one of the most striking characters of the Middle Ages. He went on several 
crusades, and fought a number of wars all over Europe. He was succeeded in 
1190 by Henry VI. 

THE AKT OP BOOK MAKING. 

45. Great Metropolis. London. 

British Museum. A vast museum in London filled with artistic, literary, 
and antiquarian treasures. 

46. "Pure English undefiled." Spenser's "Faerie Queene " has "Dan 
Chaucer, well of English undefyled." 

47. " Line upon line," etc. Isaiah xxviii. 10. 
Witches' Caldron. See "Macbeth," IV. 1. 

Metempsychosis. The passing of the soul from one body to another. 

49. The Paradise of Dainty Devices. A miscellany, composed of the best 
work of some of the early Elizabethan poets, published in 1576. 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-86). An accomplished gentleman, writer, and 
statesman, living in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He was the author of the 
pastoral romance, " Arcadia " ; the sonnet-sequence, " Astrophel and Stella," 
and other works in prose and verse. 

Small clothes. Breeches. 

Primrose Hill. An elevation near Regent's Park, now a public garden. 

Regent's Park. A park in London. 

" Babbling about green fields." See the description of Falstaff's death in 
"King Henry V.," II. 3. 

50. Beaumont and Fletcher. Two famous dramatists who wrote plays 
together. They flourished a little later than Shakspere. 

Castor and Pollux. Two devoted brothers in Greek and Roman myth- 
ology. They were heroic sons of Zeus, or Jupiter. 

Ben Jonson. A dramatist some time later than Shakspere ; one of our most 
learned playwrights. Among his finest works are his Masques, upon which 
he lavished his stores of learning. 

Patroclus. The friend of Achilles, for whose body a mighty battle raged 
between the Trojans and the Greeks. See Iliad, XVII. 

In full cry. Close in pursuit, a phrase taken from the hunting field 



142 NOTES. 

where the hounds are said to be "in full cry " when fairly upon the track of 
their prey. 
50. Learned Theban. Cf. " King Lear," III. 4. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

For grammatical notes see p. 150. 

51. Domesday Book. The ancient record of the survey of most of the 
lands of England made by order of William the Conqueror about 1086. 

54. Robert Grosseteste (cir. 1175-1253) was Bishop of Lincoln. He was an 
ardent reformer and the author of many learned treatises. 

Giraldus Cambrensis (cir. 1147-1223). A Welsh historian and ecclesiastic. 

Henry of Huntington (cir. 1084-1155). Wrote " Historia Anglorum." 

Joseph of Exeter (fl. 1190). One of the best mediaeval Latin poets. 

John Wallis. A learned man of his time. 

William of Malmesbury (cir. 1095-1143). He wrote histories of the English 
kings and bishops. 

Simeon of Durham (fl. 1130). A monk of Durham who wrote histories. 

Benedict of Peterborough id. 1193). Abbot of Peterborough, wrote a his- 
tory of the miracles of St. Thomas a Becket, etc. 

John Hanvill of St. Albans (fl. 1230). A Dominican monk of great learn- 
ing. 

55. Wynkyn de Worde. An early sixteenth-centui-y English printer, 
pupil of, and successor to, Caxton. 

Robert of Gloucester (fl. 1260-1300). Wrote an English Chronicle. 

56. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. See note, above. 

Sackville, Thomas, Earl of Dorset (1536-1608). Wrote plays to which 
Irving's epithet is justly applied. " The Mirror for Magistrates," is a uoble 
poem. 

John Lyly (1553-1606). Author of "Euphues," from which we get our 
word euphuism. 

STRATFORD- ON-AYON. 

61. Jubilee. The Shakspere Jubilee was held at Stratford September 
6, 1769. 

David Garrick (1717-79). The famous actor and friend of Johnson, Gold- 
smith, etc. 

62. Santa Casa of Loretto (Santa Casa = Holy House). The house reputed 
to have been occupied by the Virgin Mary at Nazareth and miraculously 
transported to Italy, where it stood on ground belonging to the Lady Laureta. 

67. Justice Shallow, Fa I staff, Slender, and Anne Page, are characters in 
" King Henry IV." and "The Merry Wives of Windsor." 

70. Pretended similarity. A theory has been published which claims that 
the Gothic architects got their idea of the pointed arch from the interlacing 
of branches above alleys of trees. 

71. " Under the greenwood tree," etc. From " As You Like It," II. 5. 

72. Moss-troopers. Bandits. 



NOTES. 143 

72. Star-Chamber. A high court of England, abolished in the reign of 
Charles I. So called because of the stars on the ceiling in the room in which 
it sat. 

73. Coram - quorum. 

Custalorum = Custos rotulorum. Keeper of the rolls. 
Ratalorum= another error for Gustos rotulorum. 
Armigero = armiger, esquire. 

CHRISTMAS. 

77. Announcements. Cf. St. Luke ii. 

80. Waits [Ger. wacht or wache; Eng. watch]. Musicians who perform at 
night or in the early morning. In this connection waits are musicians who 
play during the night or early morning for two or three weeks before 
Christmas. 

" When deep sleep falleth upon man." Cf. Job iv. 13 ; xxxiii. 15. 

81. " Some say that ever," etc " Hamlet," Act. I. So. 1. 

THE STAGE COACH. 
For grammatical notes see p. 156. 

82. Yorkshire. A county in the north of England. 
Bucephalus. The famous horse of Alexander the Great. 

86. Poor Robin. The name under which Robert Herrick, the poet, issued 
a series of almanacs. 

87. Frank Bracebridge. Bracebridge Hall, the scene of these Christmas 
sketches in the Sketch Book, is treated of by Irving in a separate work bear- 
ing that name. 

CHRISTMAS EVE. 

88. Chesterfield. Lord Chesterfield, author of the famous letters. 

90. G< Mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound," etc., from Goldsmith's "Elegy 
on the Death of a Mad Dog." 

" The little dogs and all," etc. " King Lear," III. 6. 

91. Twelve days of Christmas. From December 25th to tTanuary 6th. 

The old games. Many of the old Christmas games resembled those now 
played by young people. Hoodman Blind is the same as Blindman's buff. 
In Hot Cockles one of the players is blindfolded and seeks to guess who strikes 
at him. In Snap-Dragon the sport is to see the player snatch dainties from 
a bowl of blazing brandy. 

93. Buffet. A sideboard, from the French. 

97. Tester [old Fr. teste, the head]. Top cover or canopy of a bed sup- 
ported by the bedstead. 

CHRISTMAS DAT. 

100. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert (1470-1538). A very learned judge who wrote 
books on husbandry, surveying, etc., for farmers. 



144 NOTES. 

101. Old Tusser (1527-80). Wrote a work entitled "A Hundreth Good 
Pointes of Husbandrie." 

103. Druids. The priests of the ancient Britons and other Celtic races. 
Cremona fiddles. Cremona in Italy was the home of such famous violin- 
makers as the Guarneri and Stradivari families. 

104. Theophilus of Cesarea. A Father of the Church. 

St. Cyprian (cir. 200-58). A famous Father of the Church. 

St. Chrysostom {cir. 347-407). Another famous Father of the Church. His 
name means "golden-mouthed." 

St. Augustine {d. 604). The first Archbishop of Canterbury, who converted 
great numbers of the English to Christianity. 

105. Prynne (1600-69). A leader of the Puritan movement in England. 

106. " With old Duke Humphrey dine," etc. Go without dinner. 
Squire Ketch. The hangman. 

109. Pandean. An epithet formed from the name Pan of the Greek 
god of flocks and shepherds. He is said to have invented the syrinx or 
shepherd's flute. 

A LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

110. Tappaan Zee. The " Mediterranean " of the river, as Irving called it, 
is the first and largest expansion of the Hudson. This "sea" is rich in 
historic story, and far more so in romantic association. 

St. Nicholas. A highly popular saint. He is regarded as the especial 
patron of the young, and particularly of scholars. The feast of this saint used 
to be celebrated, in olden times, in England, with solemnity in the great 
public schools. 

Tarry Town. A Dutch village of considerable antiquity, cozily nestled 
among the hills on the Hudson, some twenty-five miles from New York. 
Sleepy Hollow is situated within its limits. 

Should wish for a retreat. Many years after this sketch was written the 
wish was literally gratified. Bead the " Prefatory Note." 

111. Powwows. Before going on the war-path, at councils, and on various 
other occasions, Indians were wont to hold a meeting called a "powwow," at 
which there was great noise, dancing, etc. 

Master Hendrick Hudson. During his second voyage in search of a north- 
west passage to India, this celebrated navigator discovered the Hudson River, 
in 1609. 

Nightmare [A. S. niht, night ; mara, a nightmare, incubus ; literally, "a 
crusher," from the root mar, to crush]. A dream at night accompanied 
with a feeling of pressure on the chest, generally the result of eating indiges- 
tible food. Once called the night-hag or the riding of the witch. 

u The witch we call Mara." — Scott. 

" He met the nightmare and her nine fold."— King Lear. 

Hessian trooper. During the War of the Revolution, the British gov- 
ernment hired some 16,000 troops of the German princes to fight in America. 
Most of these soldiers came from the province of Hesse-Cassel, and hence 
were called Hessians. 



NOTES. 145 

111. Church. This old Dutch church, finished in 1699, is still in existence. 
Within a stone's throw was the old mill, built in 1686, near the bridge along- 
side of which Ichabod Crane disappeared. 

112. Remote period. An example of Irving's quiet humor and genial satire. 
Cognomen [L. con, with ; nomen, name]. Surname. Roman families of 

position had three names. The cognomen was the last of the three. 

113. Eel-pot. A basket made in a peculiar shape, and used to catch eels. 

" Spare the rod and spoil the child." Cf. Butler's "Hudibvas," Part ii. C. i. 
1. 843. 

" Love is a boy by poets styl'd ; 
Then spare the rod and spoil the child." 
" He that spareth his rod hateth his son."— Prov. xiii. 24. 

114. Going the rounds. This custom of boarding the schoolmaster around 
the neighborhood is still kept up in certain sections of the country. ' ' Board- 
ing round " was the universal custom in olden times in New England. 

Useful and agreeable. Contrast this description of a country schoolmaster 
with the sketch of Goldsmith's village master in the " Deserted Village," 1. 193 ; 
and the college pedagogue described by Whittier in his "Snow-Bound." 

The lion bold, etc. Allusion is made to the rude couplet in the "New 
England Primer," which was placed beside the picture of a lion resting his 
paw on a lamb. This served to explain the letter L. 
" The Lion bold 
The Lamb doth hold." 

Whilome [A. S. whilon, sometime]. Formerly, once, of old. 

By hook and by crook. Somehow ; in one way or another. Many sug- 
gestions have been ventured in explanation of this phrase, but none are 
satisfactory. See Brewer's " Dictionary of Phrase and Fable " and Edwards's 
"Words, Facts, and Phrases." 

115. Cotton Mather's "His. of N. E. Witchcraft." Cotton Mather (1663- 
1728), a profound and industrious scholar and celebrated theologian of New 
England, was the author of 382 works, mostly theological. His best known 
work was "Magnalia Christi Americana," "a bulky thing," as the author 
called it, of 1300 pages. The work is a mighty chaos of fables and blunders, 
discussing almost every question, particularly theology and witchcraft. "It 
is never possible to tell," says Professor Moses Coit Tyler, "just where the 
fiction ends and the history begins." Irving probably had the " Magnalia " in 
mind. 

116. Linked sweetness. See Milton's "L'Allegro," 1. 140. 

" Of linked sweetness long drawn out." 

117. Saardam. A little town in Holland. 

Stomacher. Part of the waist of a woman's dress, used as an ornament or 
support. "Instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth. "—Isaiah Hi. 24. 

Stronghold. Van Tassel's stronghold is supposed to be the same 
cottage which Irving bought for a residence, and became known as "Sunny- 
side." Irving describes it as "a little old-fashioned stone mansion, all made 
up of gable ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat," 



146 NOTES. 

118. Mind's eye. Cf. "In my mind's eye, Horatio."— Hamlet I. Sc. 2. 
Pudding in his belly. "That roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in 

his belly."— Shale. 1 Hen. IV., II. 4. 

Gizzard [Fr. G-esier]. The strong, muscular stomach of a fowl. 

119. Setting out for Kentucky. At this time these States were in the 
remote West. 

Dresser. An old-time article of kitchen furniture, somewhat resembling 
the modern sideboard, on which the table dishes were arranged. 

Linsey-woolsey. Cloth made of linen and wool from which homespun 
garments were made. 

Gaud [Lat. gaudium, gladness, joy]. Show, ornament. Also spelled gawd 
in Shakspere. 

Asparagus tops. Commonly used to ornament the old-fashioned fireplace 
in summer. 

Mock oranges. A species of gourds, of various colors, shaped like oranges, 
commonly used as household ornaments. 

Old silver, etc. For additional details of the furniture of a well-to-do 
Dutch farmhouse, see Irving's "Knickerbocker's History of New York." 

Knight-errant [A. S. cnight, boy, servant; Eng. knight, a soldier who fought 
on horseback : errant, Lat. errare, to wander]. A soldier who traveled to 
exhibit his prowess or military skill. 

120. Castle-keep. The castle dungeon, used as a prison for captives, or as 
a place of last defense. 

Herculean. Hercules, one of the most celebrated heroes of Greek legends, 
was famous for his great strength and incredible feats. 

Tartar. The Tartars, inhabitants of Tartary, once a large province in 
Central Asia, were noted for their horsemanship. 

Don Cossacks. The Don Cossacks belonged to one of the great branches 
of the Cossack people, inhabiting a vast fertile plain on the Eiver Don. 
They are noted for their skillful and daring horsemanship. The Cossacks 
furnish a large and valuable contingent of light cavalry to the Russian 
army. 

121. Rantipole. A wild, harum-scarum fellow, a madcap. One of the 
nicknames given to Napoleon III. 

" Dick be a little rantipolish. "—CoZman's " Heir-at-Law." 
Supple-jack. The popular name of a tough and flexible Southern vine, 

often used for walking-sticks. 

Achilles. The hero of Homer's Hiad ; one of the bravest of the Greek 

warriors who took part in the siege of Troy. 

122. Harried [Fr. harrier, to vex]. Harassed, vexed. 

123. Mercury. The common name of Hermes, the messenger of the gods. 
Quilting frolic. An old-time merrymaking. The women were invited 

in the afternoon to "quilt"; toward night the men came to tea, after 
which followed games, dancing, gossip, etc. The "apple bee " and " husking 
bee" were similar merrymakings. Says Irving: "Now were instituted 
'quilting bees,' and 'husking bees,' and other rural assemblages, where, 
under the inspiring influence of the fiddle, toil was enlivened by gayety and 
followed up by the dance."— history of New York, Bk. VII. ch. 2. 



NOTES. 1^7 

124. Filly. A young mare. 

125. Gorget [Fr. gorge, the throat ; garget, the throat, in Chaucer]. The 
gorget was that part of ancient armor which defended the neck. Also a cres- 
cent-shaped ornament formerly worn by military officers on the breast. 

Monteiro. Fancy-colored, jaunty. Derivation of the word is in some 
doubt. 

Treacle. The syrup drained from sugar in making it. Molasses. Literally, 
means an antidote against the bite of wild beasts. Triacle, a sovereign 
remedy, commonly used in Middle English. 

126. With scissors and pincushions. For more details of the quaint style of 
dress among the Dutch people, see Irving's "Hist, of N. Y.," Bk. III. ch. 4. 

127. Oly Koek [Dutch olie koek, oil cake]. Cakes, like doughnuts and 
crullers, fried in lard. 

Higgledy-piggledy. Take notice of the numerous colloquial and familiar 
phrases used by Irving in his easy style of writing, as "higgledy-piggledy" 
"topsy-turvy," "all hollow," "by hook and by crook," etc. 

128. St. Vitus. Sometimes held to be the patron saint of the dance. He 
was supposed to have control over nervous and hysterical affections. Hence 
his power was invoked against the nervous disease, marked by irregular and 
involuntary movements of the muscles, called chorea, or more commonly, St. 
Vitus's Dance. 

Cow-boys. A gang of plunderers infesting the neutral ground lying 
between the British and American lines during the war of the Kevolution. In 
the second volume of his "Life of Washington," Irving gives a detailed and 
graphic account of the troubles and trials of this portion of the river during 
the Revolution. 

Mynheer [Ger. mein, my ; herr, a lord, sir]. A Dutch word meaning Mr. 
or Sir. 

White-Plains. A battle of little advantage to the Americans was fought 
here in 1776. 

129. Major Andre. This brave, but unfortunate, British officer was cap- 
tured by three patriots in this neighborhood while carrying dispatches from 
the traitor, Benedict Arnold, to the British general, Sir Henry Clinton. 
Andre was hanged as a spy, and his body buried beneath the gallows. Read 
details of this interesting topic in some history of the United States. 

130. Pillions. A cushion for a woman to ride on behind a person on horse- 
back. Rarely used to-day. 

Tete-a-Tete. Literally, head to head. A familiar conversation, a cozy talk, 
a confidential interview. 

131. Timothy. A name commonly given to a species of grass. One 
Timothy Hanson is said to have carried the grass to England, and hence gave 
rise to the name. 

Witching time of night. Cf. " Hamlet," III. 2, 1. 406 : 

" 'Tis now the very witching time of night 
When grave-yards yawn," etc. 

Goblin [Fr. gobelin, a hobgoblin]. An evil spirit, a frightful phantom; 
a fairy, an elf. 



148 NOTES. 

133. Stave. A staff or metrical portion of a tune. A verse in psalm- 
singing. 

135. Reach that bridge. It was a superstitious notion that witches could 
not cross the middle of a stream. Cf. Burns's " Tarn o'Shanter : " 

" A running stream they darena cross." 

Corduroy [Fr. corde-du-roi, cord of the kiug"|. A thick cotton cloth, corded 
or ribbed, from which wearing apparel for common use was often made. 

Dogs' ears. The corner of a leaf in a book turned down like the ear of a 
dog. 

136. Ten Pound Court. A court having jurisdiction over cases involving 
sums not over ten pounds, or about fifty dollars. 

137. Unfortunate pedagogue. Mention the various epithets given by 
Irving to Ichabod Crane; as, "worthy pedagogue," "a huge feeder," "the 
enraptured Ichabod," etc. 

Manhattoes. See Irving's "History of New York," Bk. II. ch. 6. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES ON THE MUTABILITY OF 
LITERATURE AND THE STAGE COACH. 

INTRODUCTION. 
Terminology. 

The Attribute complement completes the meaning of a verb and relates to 
its subject. It may be a noun, a pronoun, an adjective, a participle ; a 
phrase, participial, prepositional, or infinitive; a dependent clause. 

The Objective complement completes the meaning of a verb and relates to 
its object. It may be a noun, a pronoun, an adjective ; a phrase, participial, 
prepositional, or infinitive ; a dependent clause. 

The indirect object names the person to whom or for whom something is 
done. The preposition is not expressed before the indirect object. 

The appositive explains directly the meaning of a preceding noun or pro- 
noun. It may be a noun, pronoun, or a substantive clause or phrase ; the 
latter usually infinitive in form. Phrases are prepositional, participial, or 
infinitive in form. A preposition with its object and the modifiers of that 
object constitutes a prepositional phrase. A phrase may, therefore, include 
another phrase or even a subordinate clause. An infinitive with its com- 
plement and modifiers constitutes an infinitive phrase. A participle with 
its complement and modifiers constitutes a participial phrase. It may, 
therefore, include a modifying phrase or a dependent clause. 

Phrases, according to their use or syntax, are independent, adjective, 
adverb, or noun. An adjective phrase belongs to a noun or pronoun and in 
meaning either describes or points out. An adverbial phrase belongs to a 
verb (participle, infinitive), adjective, or adverb, and expresses all adverbial 
ideas of time, place, degree, manner, cause, purpose, result, agent, instru- 
ment, etc. The noun phrase, which is participial or infinitive in form, has 
the use of a noun ; i. e., the use of subject, object, attribute, objective com- 
plement; appositive, or object of preposition. 

An adjective clause belongs to a noun or pronoun. The adverb clause has 
the same use as an adverbial phrase, and expresses one of the above-named 
adverbial ideas. The noun clause has one of the uses named for the noun 
phrase. 

SUGGESTIONS. 

Every word must be accounted for within its own clause. For example, 
a conjunctive adverb as an adverb modifies the verb in the subordinate clause 
of which this connective forms apart ; as a connective it joins the subordinate 
clause to some ^ ord in the principal clause. Again, a relative pronoun has 

149 



150 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

its case use within its own clause, and in addition connects the subordinate 
clause with some word in the principal clause. 

The gerund or verbal in ing is here treated as a noun use of the present 
participle. All the participial constructions are disposed of under one or the 
other of two uses, noun or adjective. 

The objective complement of the active verb is treated as the attribute of 
the verb when changed to active voice. 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

Page 51. 

1. There. Introductory adverb, serving only to throw the subject moods 
after the verb. 

2. Where . . . undisturbed. Adjective clause, modifying haunt. Where 
modifies indulge and build, and connects the dependent clause with haunt. 
Where is equivalent to in which. 

3. When . . . merriment. Adverb clause, modifying was loitering. 

4. Playing at football. Adjective phrase, modifying boys. 

5. Making . . . merriment. Adjective phrase, modifying boys. 

6. Echo . . . merriment. Infinitive phrase, objective complement of 
making; i. e., completes meaning of making and modifies the objects 
passages and tombs. This is treated by some grammarians as a noun infini- 
tive clause, used as object of making, in which clause the infinitive echo has 
for its subject the nouns passages and tombs. According to the latter 
explanation, these nouns have objective case because subject of an infinitive 
vei-b. 

7. By . . . pile. Adverb phrase, modifying take. 

8. Rich. Adjective belonging to portal. An adjective, when modified by a 
phrase, usually has the position of an appositive ; i. e., after its noun. 

9. Just. Adverb belonging to the preposition toithin. Prepositions that 
retain the idea of an adverb may be so modified. 

10. As if seldom used. Supply it were. Adverb clause of manner modify- 
ing opened. As if is a compound conjunction. 

11. The roof . . . oak. Absolute participial phrase. 

12. At . . . floor. Adjective phrase, modifying xoindows. 

13. And which. A careless construction. And is a co-ordinate conjunction 
and should therefore join elements of like construction. Correct by omitting 
and. 

Page 52. 

14. Than use. A much contracted clause, as is frequently the case in com- 
parative expressions introduced by than and as. Supply they were worn by. 
It then becomes an adverb clause of degree, modifying more. Than modifies 
were worn in the dependent clause and as connective joins the dependent 
clause with more. See introductory notes. 

15. Deep. Adjective, attribitte complement of was buried. 

16. Faintly . . . cloisters. Objective complement of hear. See intro- 
ductory notes. 

17. Tolling for prayers. Adjective phrase, modifying bell. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 151 

18. That echoed . . . abbey. See 16. 

19. Fainter. Adjective, attribute complement of grew. 

20. To toll. Noun infinitive, object of ceased. 

21. Instead of reading. Adverb phrase, modifying was beguiled. 

22. However. Parenthetical adverb. 

23. Into . . . musing. Adverb phrase, modifying teas beguiled. 

24. Like mummies. This may be accounted for in three ways : (a) Like, 
a preposition, mummies its object ; (b) Like, an adverb modifying are 
entombed; mummies object of preposition to supplied ; (c) Like, an adverb, 
mummies equivalent to an adverbial prepositional phrase modifying like. 
The third explanation is to be preferred. Some grammarians term this an 
adverbial noun ; others, an adverbial objective. 

25. Head. Indirect object. Days, object. 

26. And all (was) for what ? 

27. To occupy . . . shelf; to have myself: to be lost even to remembrance. 
Supply it was. These are then noun phrases in apposition with it. 

28. Read . . . myself. Objective complement of have. 

29. Like. An adjective, modifying straggler. For myself, see mummies, 
note 24. 

30. Even. Adverb, modifying phrase, to remembrance. 

31. Filling . . . moment ; lingering . . . echo ; passing . . . not. Adjective 
phrases modifying which. 

32. Half murmuring ; half meditating. Attribute complements of sat. 

Page 53. 

33. Having contracted is joined by and with being troubled and hence in the 
same construction ; but the former in thought refers to look ; the latter to 
voice. 

34. Tome. Objective complement of found; or, it may be called a second- 
ary object. 

35. To be sure. Independent. 

36. What . . . barbarous. Noun clause, attribute complement of was, 
(supplied after pronimciation). 

What. Relative pronoun, subject of would be deemed; introduces noun 
clause. Barbarous. Attribute complement of would be deemed. 

37. As far as I am able. Far, adverb, modifying shall endeavor . As, adverb 
degree modifying far. Dependent clause as I am able is an adverb clause of 
degree modifying as far in the independent clause ; or, it may be said to 
modify the first as. The second as is a conjunctive adverb, modifying am in 
its own clause, and connecting the dependent clause with as far. See intro- 
ductory notes. 

38. About . . . obscurity. Adverbial phrase, modifying railings. Being 
suffered . . . obscurity. Adjective phrase, modifying merit. To languish 
in obscurity. Attribute complement of being suffered. 

39. That . . . centuries. Adverb clause, modifying complained. 

40. More than. Compound adverb, modifying two. 

41. A plague. A is an absolute preposition. 

42. I began to perceive. Parenthetical. The relative clause, by a not 



152 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

infrequent idiom, is at once the object of perceive and an adjective modifier 
of quarto. 

43. Shut up here ; watched . . . dean. Objective complements ; i. e., 
they complete keeping and modify its object volumes. 

4A. Merely . . . dean. Adverb phrase, modifying shut up. 

45. To give pleasure. Adverbial phrase, modifying were written. 

46. That the dean . . . year. Noun clause in apposition with rule. Each. 
Indirect object of pay. Tear. Equivalent to an adverbial phrase modifying 
once. 

47. If not . . . task. Adverb clause of condition, modifying let. 

48. Let. Predicate verb of independent clause, in imperative mode. Let 
is followed by the indirect object them, and the noun infinitive phrase used as 
object, turn loose . . . among us. Or, them may be treated as subject of the 
infinitive turn and the phrase be treated as object of let. This is an ordinary 
construction with let. 

49. Loose. Objective complement, completing turn and modifying its 
object school. 

50. That . . . airing. Adverb clause of purpose, modifying turn. 

51. Aware. Adjective. Attribute complement of are. How much . . . 
generation. Are aware seems to have a transitive force equivalent to know, 
and hence is followed by an object clause. Or, the clause may be called 
adverbial, modifying aware. Or, it may be an appositive of fact supplied. 

52. Than . . . your generation. Supply are: An adverb clause of degree, 
modifying better. Off. Adverb modifying better. 

53. While . . . dust. Adverb clause of time, modifying lie. En- 
shrined . . . chapels. Attribute. Long, adverb, modifying since. 

54. To circulate . . . works. Attribute complement of icas intended. 

Page 54. 

55. Before I go to pieces. Adverb clause of time, modifying uttering. 

56. Friend. Independent, used in direct address. 

57. Long. Adverb, modifying phrase ere this. 

58. Ere. Preposition, governing this. 

59. To judge physiognomy. Supply If I were. 

60. Stricken. An attribute complement, not a part of the verb. 

61. To being . . . libraries. Adverb phrase, modifying owe. 

62. Which. Here equals these used as object of likening, and the clause 
becomes independent. The sentence then reads, suffer me to add that instead 
of likening these to harems you might more properly have compared (them), etc. 

63. Me to add. For me and add, see Note 52. 

64. Instead of. Compound preposition. The phrase is adverbial, modifying 
might have compared. 

65. And where. Cf. Note 13. A careless construction. Correct by 
omitting and. Adjective clause, modifying establishments. 

66. As if in circulation. Supply they were. Adverb clause of manner, 
modifying talk. 

67. To have . . . volumes. Attribute complement of is said. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 153 

68. Only. Only is adjective or adverb, according to the part of speech of the 
word which it emphasizes. Here an adverb, modifying few. 

69. Where . . . antiquarian. Adjective clause, modifying libraries. 
Where equals in which. 

70. Historian, philosopher, etc. Appositives of Giraldus Cambrensis. 

71. That he . . . posterity. Adverb clause of purpose, modifying declined. 

72. Miracle. Attribute complement styled. 

73. OfJohnWallis . . . life. Adjective phrase, modifying what. 

Page 55. 

74. So that . . . forgotten. Adverb clause of result, modifying lived and 
wrote. 

75. To be forgotten. Noun infinitive, object of deserve. 

76. Where . . . fixed. Adjective clause, modifying time. 

77. Model. Attribute complement of was considered. 

78. That these . . . phraseology. Object of observe. 

79. That I have . . . phraseology. Adverb clause of result, modifying 
such, or such antiquated ; or, it may be classified as a clause of degree. 

80. Mercy. Object of cry. You. Indirect object. 

81. Back to. A compound preposition, governing times. Even modifies 
the phrase back to the times. 

82. Mutable. Adjective used as objective complement, completing has 
made, and modifying literature. Fleeting, same construction. 

83. Than such a medium (is). Adverb clause of degree, modifying more ; 
or, more permanent. 

84. Altering. Participle, used as objective complement. Subject. An 
adjective in the same construction. 

Page 56. 

85. Supplanted . . . writers. Participial phrasj, objective complement of 
beholds. 

86. Such. Attribute complement of will be of which verb fate is the subject. 

87. Such will be the fate . . . Tartary. Noun clause object of anticipates, 
which is the predicate of the independent clause. 

88. However . . . purity. Adverb clause of concession, modifying will 
grow. 

89. Until . . . Tartary. Adverb clause of time, modifying will grow. 

90. Almost. Adverb modifying as. 

91. Unintelligible. Adjective, attribute complement of shall become. 

92. As . . . Tartary. Adverb clause of degree, modifying as preceding 
unintelligible. 

93. Said . . . Tartary. Adjective phrase, modifying inscriptions. 

94. To exist . . . Tartary. Infinitive adjective phrase, attribute comple- 
ment of said. 

95. Disposed . . . existence. Participial adjective phrase, attribute com- 
plement of feel. 

96. To sit down . . . existence. Adverb phrase, modifying disposed. Or, 
some might consider it adjective used as attribute complement. 



154 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

97. Like. Adjective modifying I Xerxes. Noun equivalent to an adverb 
phrase modifying like. 

98. When . . . existence. Adverb clause of time, modifying did supplied. 

99. In existence. Adjective phrase, attribute complement of icould be. 

100. That . . . existence. Noun clause, object of reflected. 

101. But. Preposition, because equivalent to except. The phrase is objec- 
tive and modifies nothing. 

102. In vogue. Adjective phrase, objective complement of suppose, modify- 
ing the object whom. 

103. So. Here an adjective equivalent to the phrase in vogue, and attribute 
complement of to be. 

104. Though . . . proverb. Adverb clause of concession, modifying is 
known. 

105. Succeeding. Not a participle, but an adjective. Distinguish sharply 
between an adjective which is spelled like a participle, and a participle which 
relates to a noun and hence is used adjectively. 

Page 57. 

106. That it is . . . curious. Adverb clause of degree, modifying so. Or, 
it may be considered a clause of restdt. 

107. That some . . . curious. Noun clause, [in apposition with it. Curious. 
An adjective used as a noun. 

108. Precaution. Objective complement. 

109. To reason from analogy. Independent. 

110. Springing, flourishing, adorning, fading. Objective complements. 

111. 'Were not this the case. Adverbial clause of consideration, modifying 
would be. Note the inverted order, when the conjunction if is omitted. 

112. Time. Adverbial use of a noun ; i. e., equivalent to a prepositional 
adverbial phrase. Do not supply a preposition. 

113. To be transcribed by hand. Adverb phrase modifying hand. 

114. So that . . . another. Result clause, modifying icas expensive. It is 
often difficult to limit to one word the modifying force of an adverb clause. 
It seems to belong to the combined meaning of predicate and attribute 
adjective, as in the present instance. So that. A compound conjunction. 

115. That we . . . antiquity; that . . . deluge. Noun clauses in apposition 
with it. 

116. Writer. Objective complement. 

117. Mine ... to pour and diffuse. See 52. 

118. Since. Adjective, belonging to centuries. 

119. Such. Adjective, modifying libraries. 

120. As. Relative pronoun. It is subject of exist, and connects the adjective 
clause as actually exist with the antecedent libraries. 

121. Containing . .. . volumes. Adjective phrase, modifying libraries. 

122. Legions. Supply to. Same construction as libraries. 

123. To double . . . number. Infinitive adverb phrase, modifying going on. 

Page 58. 

124. Now that. A compound conjunctive adverb introducing a clause 
which expresses both time and cause, and modifies tremble. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 155 

125. The mere . . . sufficient. Noun clause, object of fear. 

126. Of. Adverb; or, it maybe treated as a preposition inseparably con- 
nected witb the verb. 

127. Let criticism do. See note 52. 

128. What it may (do). Noun clause object of do. What. Object of may 
do in the dependent clause. 

129. Merely . . . names. Noun phrase, appositive of it. 

130. But. Preposition. 

131. Before long. A compound adverb equivalent to soon. 

132. Just. Adverb of degree, modifying as. 

133. Just .... world. Adverb clause of time, modifying making. 

134. For he was. . . deer-stealing. Adverb clause of reason, modifying 
shook. 

135. To run the country for deer-stealing. Attribute complement of was 
obliged. See introductory notes. 

136. There. See note 1. 

137. Proof. Adjective, attribute complement of seem. 

138. Defying . . . vicinity. Three participial adjective phrases, objective 
complements of behold. 

139. Even he. Even is an adjective relating to he. 

140. I grieve to say. Independent clause. 

141. To say. Adverb phrase. 

142. Clambering. A mere adjective. See 108. 

Page 59. 

143. That the literature . . . poet. Noun clause, object of persuade. Me. 
Indirect object. 

144. Nettled . . . age. Adjective phrase, used as attribute of felt. 

145. With the true poet. Adjective phrase, modifying everything. 

146. Such. Adjective, limiting life. 

147. As it is passing before him. Eelative adjective clause, modifying such 
pictures. As. Belative pronoun, attribute complement of is passing. 

148. To be renewed. Noun infinitive, object of may require. 

149. As (it happened) in the case of Chaucer. Adverb clause of manner, 
modifying to be renewed. 

150. Unaltered. Adjective, attribute of continue. 

151. Back. Adverb, modifying cast. 

152. What vast . . . metaphysics. Three contracted exclamatory sen- 
tences. Supply in each we see. Volleys, boys, wastes, then become the 
objects in their respective sentences. 

153. To transmit . . . age. Adverb phrase of purpose, modifying elevated. 

154. From age to age. May be taken as an idiomatic adverbial expression 
not to be separated into parts. Or, the two simple phrases from age and to 
age modify transmit. 

Page 60. 

155. About to launch . . . day. Prepositional phrase used as attribute 
complement of was. About is a preposition having for its object the infinitive 
phrase to launch . . . day. 



156 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

156. When . . . head. Adverb clause of time, modifying was. 

157. Me. Object of caused. To turn my head, objective complement of 
caused. See 52. 

158. That it was . . . library. Noun clause, appositive of fact supplied. 

159. To close the library. Adjective phrase, modifying time. 

160. Unconscious. Adjective, attribute complement of looked. 

161. But in vain. Supply I endeavor. 

THE STAGE COACH. 

Page 82. 

1. To illustrate . . . country. Attribute complement of am tempted. 

2. In perusing . . . amusement. An independent clause, which being 
equivalent to and these. 

3. In perusing which. Adverb phrase, modifying to lay aside. 

4. To lay aside . . . wisdom ; to put on . . . amusement. Objective com- 
plement of invite. 

5. In the course . . . Yorkshire ; for a long distance ; in one of the public 
coaches ; on the day preceding Christmas. Four adverb phrases, modifying 
rode. 

6. Bound . . . dinner. Participial adjective phrase, attribute complement 
of seemed. 

7. To eat . . . dinner. Adverb phrase, modifying bound. 

8. Dangling . . . box. Participial adjective phrase, attribute complement 
of hung. 

9. Presents. Explanatoi*y modifier of hares. 

10. For the impending feast. Adjective phrase, modifying presents. 

11. For my fellow passengers. Adverb phrase, modifying had. 

12. Inside. Adverb, modifying had. 

13. Themselves. Indirect object of were promising. World. Object of 
were promising. 

14. To hear . . . pedagogue. Noun phrase, explanatory modifier of it. 

15. Which they were . . . pedagogue. Relative adjective clause, modifying 
feats. 

16. Down to. Compound preposition. Down to the very cat and dog. Ad- 
jective phrase, modifying family and household. 

17. Which I found to be a pony. Which. Object of found. To be a pony. 
Objective complement of found. See Mutability of Literature. Note 52. 

18. According to. Compound preposition. 

19. Than any steed (has possessed) since, etc. Adverb clause of degree, 
modifying more. 

Page 83. 

20. Under . . . questions. Adjective phrase, attiibute complement of were. 

21. Pronounced. Joined by and with were. 

22. One. Objective complement of pronounced. 

23. But. Adverb, being equivalent to only. Modifies could notice. A curious 
use of the double negative in English. Not is superfluous. 

24. More than. Has the force of the prefix extra, phrase adverb, modifying 
ordinary. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 157 

25. Little. Equivalent to the Latin construction for measure of difference. 
A substantive, equivalent to an adverbial preposition phrase, modifying the 
phrase on one side. 

26. Stuck . . . coat. Adjective phrase, modifying bunch. 

27. He is particularly so. So is an adjective equivalent to full of care and 
business, and is attribute complement of is. 

28. To execute. Adjective infinitive, modifying commissions. 

29. In consequence . . . presents. Adverb phrase, modifying having. 

30. To have . . . mystery. Noun phrase, explanatory modifier of it. 

31. So that. Compound conjunction. 

32. So that . . . mystery. Adverb clause of result, modifying have. 

33. As if. Compound conjunction. 

34. As if . . . skin. Adverb clause of manner, modifying mottled. 

35. The upper . . . heels. Independent, absolute phrase. One is the 
nominative case used absolutely with the participle reaching. 

36. Far below. Below, a preposition. Far, an adverb, modifying below. 

37. To meet . . . legs. Adverb phrase, modifying extend. 

38. Notwithstanding . . . appearance. Adverb phrase, modifying is. 

39. Discernible. Attribute complement of is. 

40. Neatness and propriety. Subjects of is. The predicate is singular be- 
cause the subjects together convey a unified idea. 

41. Along the road. Adverb phrase, modifying enjoys. 

42. Man. Objective complement of look upon. Look upon may be regarded 
as a transitive verb, equivalent to regard, the preposition upon being so 
closely related to the verb as to form with it but one idea. Or, the sentence 
may be treated as elliptical. Supply after as, they icould look upon. 

43. To have . . . lass. Attribute complement of seems. 

44. Moment. Equivalent to an adverb phrase modifying throws. 

45. (in which) he arrives . . . changed. Adjective clause, modifying 
moments. 

Page 84. 

46. His duty . . . another. Absolute participial phrase, independent gram- 
matically, but having the force of an adverb modifying abandons. See Reed 
& Kellogg's " High School Grammar," page 70. 

47. Merely . . . another. Noun phrase, attribute complement of being. 

48. When (he is) off the box. 

49. As (they would look) up to an oracle. Adverb clause of manner, modi- 
fying look. 

50. To imitate . . . carriage. Noun phrase, object of endeavor. 

51. That I fancied . . . journey. Noun clause, explanatory modifier of it. 

52. As the coach . . . village. Adverb clause of time, modifying runs. 

53. Company pass. Company is the object, and (to) pass the objective com- 
plement of seeing. 

54. Blacksmith's. Modifies some noun supplied. 

55. With . . . cap. Adverb phrase, modifying pauses. 

56. Iron to grow cool. See 53. 

57. Laboring at the bellows. Adjective phrase, modifying specter. 



158 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

Page 85. 

58. More than. Has the force of the prefix un. See 24. 

59. As if everybody . . . spirits. Noun clause, explanatory modifier of it. 

60. In brisk circulation in the villages. Adjective phrase, attribute com- 
plement of were. 

61. Putting . . . order. Attribute of were stirring. 

62. To appear at the windows. Noun phrase, object of began. 

63. Square it. It is a kind of impersonal objective. We have a similar 
idiom in the expression foot it. 

64. in time. Attribute complement of must be. 

65. For the youth . . . fire. Adverb clause of reason, modifying must be. 

66. To get them a heat. Adverb phrase, modifying must dance and (must) 
sing. Them. Indirect object of get. 

67. Whether . . . breeches. Noun clause, explanatory modifier of co?i- 
tention. 

68. Recognizing . . . home. Attribute complement of had been looking. 

69. Dozing . . . roadside. Attribute complement of stood. 

70. To see . . . joy. Adverb phrase, modifying was pleased. 

71. With some difficulty. Attribute complement of was. 

72. That John . . . first. Noun clause, explanatory modifier of it. 

Page 86. 

73. In which. Adverb phrase, modifying predominated. 

74. In which . . . predominated. Adjective clause, modifying feeling. 

75. Whether . . . predominated. Noun clause, object of do know. 

76. Like them. Like, adjective modifying I. Them. Equivalent to an 
adverb phrase, modifying like. See "Mutability of Literature," note 24. 

77. Minutes. Equivalent to an adverb phrase, modifying slopped. 

78. On resuming our route. Adverbial phrase, modifying brought. 

79. In the portico. Adverb phrase, modifying could distinguish. 

80. Trooping along . . . carriage-road. Objective complement of saw. 

81. Where night. Adjective clause modifying village. 

82. Of spacious dimensions. Adjective phrase, attribute complement of 
was. 

83. To attack this stout repast. Adverb phrase, modifying were preparing. 
Some grammarians would call this a noun phrase, object of were preparing. 

84. Smoking . . . fire. Attribute complement of sat. 

85. On two . . . fire. Adverb phrase, modifying sat. 

86. Beside the fire. Adjective phrase, modifying settles. 

87. To exchange . . . fire. Adverb phrase, modifying were seizing. 

Page 87. 

88. To discuss . . inn. Noun phrase, subject of was. 

89. Finding . . . observation. Adjective phrase, modifying he. 

90. That I . . . observation. Noun clause, object of finding. 

91. That I . . . distance. Noun clause, object of insisted. Or, a noun clause 
in an adverbial use. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 159 

92. Him. Direct object of give. 

93. Than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn (is good). Adverb 
clause of degree, modifying better. 

94. Eating . . . inn. Noun phrase, subject of is (supplied). 

95. Said he. Independent clause. The quoted speech is the object of said. 

96. (That) the preparation . . . loneliness. Noun clause, object of must 
confess. 

97. (Which) I had seen. Adjective clause, modifying preparation. 

98. For universal festivity and enjoyment. Adjective phrase, modifying 
preparation. 

99. We feel. See " Mutability of Literature," note 52. 

100. Impatient. Attribute complement of feel. 



&g 



JAN 14 1901 



016JV^^^^ 



